Rouse Me

by Crystal Kaswell

  There's an office with two desks. Neither seems to get much use. They are identical factory made plastic things, down to the matching gray chairs. One desk is empty except for a few scattered pieces of paper. The other is dotted with files, pens, and an empty spot where a laptop belongs. Behind a layer of dust, I see feminine decorations. Silk flowers. A girly pen holder. A picture of Luke and Samantha in an adorable frame. Really, who prints pictures nowadays? Isn't digital good enough?

  I shake my head and let myself into the backyard. The sun is low in the sky, but its light reflects the little waves of the aqua pool. I close my eyes and try to recall the first kiss we shared, but I can't picture anything except Luke and Samantha, naked, their bodies writhing in the water.

  Ugh. I was doing so well.

  I roll up my jeans and sit on the concrete. The water moves in such a soft, steady rhythm, hitting the sides of the pool over and over again. I close my eyes and let the breeze blow through my hair. But it's no good. All I can see is Luke and Samantha, sharing their lives as equals, deeply in love.

  That will never be us.

  I pull my shirt over my head and use it as a pillow as I lie down. The concrete is hard and the shirt is awful padding. I feel the stretch in my stomach. I'm behind on my workouts and my body is a tired mess from my lack of sleep.

  That's what you get for staying up all night trying to maintain Luke's attention.

  I dip my toes in the pool. I see Luke and Samantha, in the pool. This time, they are not fucking. No, they swim around, splashing and pulling at each other’s swimsuits. She wears something classy. That navy bikini he offered me. They chase each other around the pool. Really, it's Luke chasing her, until he catches her and wraps his arms around her.

  I scrape my foot against the rough edge of the pool. I see them, in their office, laughing during a break. She takes off her glasses—she thinks they make her look like a librarian, but he loves them—and rubs her temples. He gets up from his computer to kiss her. She swats him playfully. Now isn't the time, but he insists. And how can she say no to those big, brown eyes? She is working too hard. She needs a break. And he knows just how to get her mind off work. He pulls her to the edge of the chair, his hands sneaking up her legs.

  I slide my legs into the pool, water soaking my rolled-up jeans, making them instantly heavy. I see them on the couch. It's a lazy Sunday. Luke watches TV, probably some crime drama, in his boxers and one of those white V-necks. Samantha steps out of the office. He pulls her onto the couch, onto his lap. She insists, once again, she has to work, but he presses his arms around her, and her objections cease. They don't fuck. No, they lie like that for hours, just like us. Then, he makes her dinner. And they take a walk, holding hands and stepping in unison. He worries she is working too hard. She calls him a hypocrite. It's playful. And, as soon as he opens the door, they kiss their way to the bedroom and spend half the night not sleeping.

  And, the rest, they spend with their bodies pressed together, lungs and hearts moving in unison. He plays with the ring on her finger. He kisses her neck. He tells her he loves her. And everything is beautiful, every day, for so long. They are in love. They are partners. They are equals.

  And somehow, something goes wrong, all the loves fades, Samantha slips and Luke isn't strong enough to catch her.

  Chapter 27

  Luke's voice jolts me back to attention. “You're going to have to take off those pants. Not that I mind.”

  I roll up and pull my soaked legs from the pool, pressing my knees into my chest. Fuck, I'm not wearing anything but a bra. I pull my shirt back over my head, but it's wet from the concrete.

  Luke hands me a takeout cup and I sip it. It's some kind of black tea. I shake my head. He offers the other cup. A latte, strong and bitter. He sits on the concrete next to me and drops a stack of honey packets between us. We stir them into our drinks with our fingers. He says nothing about my wet clothes. I say nothing about Samantha.

  “Why do you stay in the condo?”

  “Too many memories here,” he says.

  “The place is full of Samantha's things.”

  “It's going to be hers,” he says.

  “You loved her more than anything, didn't you?”

  “Yes,” he says, and takes a long sip. He sticks out his tongue. “Okay, I put way too much honey in this.”

  “Are the memories really that bad?”

  “It hurts too much. I can never sleep when I'm here. I can never get anything done.”

  “Do you sleep in your apartment?”

  “A little.”

  I suck the last bit of honey from a packet and drink my latte. Maybe the caffeine will make this all feel easier.

  “Have you been visiting her?” I ask.

  He nods. “She needs company, someone to keep her occupied.”

  “What do you mean ‘occupied’?”

  “I told you. It was over long before she swallowed that bottle of sleeping pills. She needs a friend. Just a friend.”

  Or maybe she needs someone who will spend the night lying next to her on the couch watching Law and Order. Someone who will fetch her coffee and breakfast. Someone who will beg her to leave her asshole fiancé.

  Or something like that.

  “She'll go back to my father's firm,” he says. “But I don't know if she should. It's too much stress.”

  “You're still taking care of her,” I say.

  “It's not like that.”

  “You still love her.”

  “Not like that,” he says.

  “But, still, you love her.”

  “She's better, but she needs someone to watch over her. She needs someone to hold her hand so she doesn't slip back into that dark fog.”

  “I bet Ryan would say the same thing about me,” I say.

  “I thought we weren't talking about him.”

  “I thought I wouldn't have to.”

  “Come on, Alyssa, what's wrong?”

  “I don't care if you broke up, if she gave you back her ring. I don't care about whatever you tell yourself about how you and Samantha ended a long time ago. You haven't let go of her.”

  “You're engaged,” he says.

  “And I'll probably stay that way. If you can't let go of her, what chance do I have of letting go of Ryan?”

  “He treats you like a child.”

  “And how do you treat Samantha?”

  “It's not like that with her. She doesn't have a lot of friends. I'm only helping her out.”

  “How often do you think about her?”

  “Not as often as I think about you,” he says.

  “I have to go. Ryan is going to be upset. And I'm not going to survive you breaking my heart without him.”

  “I would never—”

  “You'd never do it on purpose.”

  I get up and pull my wet jeans up my hips.

  “Don't go,” he says. “I don't love her that way anymore. I swear.”

  “This is getting too complicated,” I say.

  “It doesn't have to be. I care about you. You care about me. It can be that simple.”

  “Maybe,” I say.

  “Please, I'll love you in a way he never has.”

  “You said that before.”

  “I meant it. Come on, Alyssa. Don't get scared over this stuff in my past. I'm helping out a friend. That's all.”

  “Maybe,” I say, but I don't believe it.

  He gets up and presses his arms around me. His chest is so safe and warm and this is all too much to think about. I feel his lips on my forehead, his hands on my back. I want to give into the comfort. I want to walk back into Ryan's apartment, pack my stuff, and tell him it's over.

  But I can't. I still need Ryan. I don't want to need him, but I do. I don't want to need someone to take care of me, but I do.

  Luke couldn't protect Samantha even when she had his full attention. How is he going to protect me when he spends all his time protecting her?

  How is he going to love m
e when he sees her in every stumble I take?

  I don't want to need protection. I don't want to be so pathetic. I'm scared he'll take care of me and I'm scared he won't. I'm scared I'm replacing her and I'm scared that I'm not.

  “I need more time,” I say, pulling away from him.

  “I understand,” he says. And, suddenly, I feel cold, and no amount of sun on my back can change it.

  ***

  I slip into our apartment and slink to the spare room. I am halfway into a fresh pair of clothing when Ryan knocks on the door.

  He steps inside without an invitation. His eyes are puffy and blood shot. His hair and clothes, for once, are a mess. I sit on the bed, staring out the window, my back to him. He sits on the other side of the bed, facing away from me.

  “I'm sorry, sweetheart. I was so mad at Luke last night. We were arguing about work. And then he said…I was so drunk, I don't even remember exactly what he said.”

  He moves a little closer.

  “There's something between the two of you, isn't there?” he asks. I can't bring myself to lie, but I certainly can't tell him the truth.

  “I don't want to talk about it.”

  “I remember when I got the call last year. Someone told me you were on your way to the hospital. And I was terrified. I didn't expect to be terrified—I had so much practice staying calm while other people were freaking out—but I was terrified something awful would happen to you.”

  “You've never been terrified of anything,” I say.

  “I was. I tried not to show it, but I was so scared. I had no idea what to do. I still don't. I know I'm strict, maybe a little too strict, but it's only because I want to protect you.”

  “I know.”

  “I only want to take care of you.”

  I look into Ryan's hazel eyes. He seems so sincere. Is he sincere? Did he bump his head and fall into the person he used to be, or is this some sad, insincere attempt to win my favor?

  “I said such awful things last night,” he continues, “but I didn't mean it. It hurt so much knowing you wanted him…knowing you were with him.”

  “Why didn't you want me to go back to acting?”

  “Because I want all of you, all the time,” he says. “And I'm so, so scared you're going to fall apart again.”

  “You can't have all of me all the time,” I say.

  “I need to be the most important thing in your life,” he says.

  “You were.”

  “Were?”

  “You know what I mean,” I say, but I'm not even sure what I mean. Was Ryan ever the most important thing in my life? Sure, I spent the entire day waiting for him to get home, but that was only to end my loneliness. I've never loved Ryan the way I love acting. I've never felt drawn to him, compelled to be by his side. I enjoy his company, usually, but is that really enough?

  But Ryan has been there for me for so long. So what if I don't feel a rush when he touches me? So what if I don't crave a deeper intimacy with him? That's never been a part of our relationship. It's always been about keeping each other grounded. It's always been about him protecting me, and I, in exchange, being the pretty girl on his arm and in his bed.

  It wasn't that cold. It's not like we had some kind of formal agreement. I still remember the first night we were together. I was so desperate for him to kiss me back. I was so desperate for him to want me. But why? I was never in love with him. I never lusted after him. I didn't even want him, not really, not the way I want Luke.

  But he was there. And he cared about me, in his own, messed up way. And that was enough, wasn't it?

  When did that stop being enough?

  “I know things haven't been as good lately,” he says, “but we can change them. We can get back to how we were. You just need to listen to me and we can get things back to normal.”

  How we were, with me relying on Ryan for everything, following his every order. No, that's putting it too cynically. I needed Ryan. He didn't order me around. He guided me. He looked out for me. He saved me.

  “You called me a whore,” I say.

  “I'm sorry. I was jealous about you and Luke.”

  I get up from my spot on the bed and sit next to Ryan. Apologizing isn't Ryan's M.O. Maybe things will be different. Maybe he really means it.

  “I need to know what's going on between you and Luke,” he says. “I won't be mad at you. It's not your fault if he tempted you. You can't help yourself.”

  I want to tell Ryan to go fuck himself for his attitude, but the look in his eyes hits me like a ton of bricks. All I can see is the scared boy who walked me home from school. The scared boy who worried if I had more than two drinks. The boy who begged me to move out of my crappy neighborhood, to some place safer, someplace where I wouldn't get hurt.

  He was always there, and everyone around me was in the TV industry, and none of them could hold a conversation that wasn't about movies or who they happened to know. And, maybe Ryan didn't have a lot to say, but at least he didn't want to namedrop. And he never made me feel like I was taking away the free time he desperately needed to study.

  All I can see is the boy who saved my life and saw how badly I hurt when no one else could.

  I reach for Ryan's hand.

  “I love you,” he says. The words bounce around my ears. It's not going to consume me or engulf me, but it will be there to keep me safe and comfortable.

  “I won't be able to live with myself if something happens to you,” he says.

  “Nothing will happen to me.”

  “Tell me what's going on with you and Luke. I need to know.”

  “I'm exhausted.”

  “Alyssa.”

  “Not now.”

  “We're going to have to talk about it eventually.”

  “I know,” I say.

  “I love you,” he says.

  “I love you too,” I say, but I don't know if I mean it. Ryan slides his arms around me, and, even though I promised Luke I wouldn't, I press my lips into Ryan's.

  It still isn't fireworks or electricity, but maybe it is safer that way.

  Chapter 28

  Monday morning is a welcome respite from my thoughts. I soak in mindless banter with my makeup artist, begging her to tell me every excruciatingly boring detail of her weekend. By the time she finishes her recount of last night's drinks—she drinks a lot—we are behind schedule. She rushes through the rest of my makeup, my false eyelashes barely glued to my lids.

  I throw myself into my lines and the director—a new episode, a new director—has to keep asking me to tone it down. There is too much waiting while we change lights or move the camera or touch up someone's makeup. I am not about to let my mind wander to all this confusion with Luke and Ryan. Sunday was hard enough. It was so quiet I couldn't think of anything except the sad, hurt look in Ryan's eyes.

  I am so weak and pathetic. Why can't I tell Ryan the truth? He already knows about Luke and me. He already has some idea. I should admit what we've done. I should admit how I feel about Luke. But Ryan needs to believe he's the only one for me. It will kill him to know how much I want Luke. It will kill him to know he has never stirred me the way Luke has stirred me. It will kill him to know he has never made me feel electricity.

  A month ago, I couldn't imagine my life without Ryan. Now…Now I can't imagine any of this working out.

  “Alyssa!” The director screams. “We're ready! It's your line!”

  Naomi nods to the director and rolls her eyes. None of the actors seem to like this guy, but, apparently, he's some kind of visionary. Like it matters. Honestly, the ego on some of these assholes.

  I focus on my lines. I focus on my irritation at our stupid, balding director and his stupid windbreaker. I focus on the blindingly bright lights, and I block out everything else.

  Lunch comes far too soon and I am stuck with my thoughts. I try to listen to Naomi, but she goes on and on about some magazine interview, some publicist, some bullshit.

  “What's with you today?�
�� she asks.

  “Nothing,” I say. “Rough weekend.”

  “Something happen?” she asks. I don't doubt her intentions, but I'm not about to spread this around. There are already far too many people involved. It should be me and Luke or me and Ryan. It shouldn't be the three of us plus Samantha.

  “No, just busy,” I say and slip back into autopilot. There is so much waiting on set, but I manage to keep my mind free during most of my breaks. The day ends. I don't look at my phone until I am out of hair and makeup and back in my jeans and T-shirt.

  Of course, I have a text from Luke. “How much of this ‘time’ stuff do you need?”

  I reply. “I don't know.”

  Ding. “I miss you. I want to see you. I want to be with you.”

  “I thought I was cut off until I made up my mind.”

  Ding. “That was before I went crazy thinking about the sounds you make when you come.”

  Jesus.

  Ding. “Come to my apartment. Ryan is working late tonight.”

  I write and delete a reply. I can't do this. I can't give into Luke. Ryan apologized. Ryan wants to set things right. I need to tear myself away from Luke until I figure this out.

  Then I see an attached picture. It's Luke, from his chin to just below his bellybutton—his strong chest, his toned stomach, the jut of his hipbones, the soft trail of hair leading to his boxers. God, he's hot.

  I take a deep breath. I try to reason with myself. After all, this is only dragging out the heartbreak. This is only going to make it harder to stay with Ryan. But what if I shouldn't stay with Ryan? It's all so confusing and complicated. It's easy to work and not think about this.

  I look at the picture on my phone and bite my lip. I start to shake. Maybe I can take care of this need on my own. Maybe. I close my eyes, but I can already tell my hand won't satisfy. I need Luke's lips and his hands and his cock. It doesn't have to be complicated. It doesn't have to be romantic. It doesn't have to be special.