“I'll figure something out,” I say. I turn towards the door and drag my wet heels across the floor. What the fuck will I figure out? Is there any reasonable explanation for coming home with wet clothing?
His gaze turns towards me. He sees the carton of ice cream on the counter, the last remnants of it a melted mess. He nods as if everything is finally clicking into place.
“Are you trying to kill me?” he asks. He picks up the T-shirt and moves closer to me. He's still in his boxers. It doesn't mean anything. We're done with all that. He's done with me.
“I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking.”
He offers the T-shirt again, but I don't take it. “Come on, Alyssa, I can't send you home in wet clothes.”
“Cause that's less suspicious than wearing nothing but your T-shirt?”
“I'm sure he's figured it out by now,” Luke says.
“He has.”
“And?”
“What do you care?” I ask. “You broke up with me yesterday, or did you forget that?”
He runs his hands through his hair. It's usually sexy. Well, it's still sexy, but it's so much more anguished than usual. Can't we be together? Just one more time? Just 15 more minutes where I don't have to face how royally I've fucked this up?
“What am I supposed to do here? I stick to my word, and save myself a whole lot of misery by getting you and Ryan out of my life, and you fall apart. I stick around and help you, I go crazy watching you live your real life with Ryan.”
“I'll leave you alone,” I say, but, instead, I take a step closer to him.
He slings the T-shirt over his shoulder. I feel his arms around my waist, pulling my tank top over my head.
“Don't give me any ideas,” I say. He offers the T-shirt again, and, this time, I take it. I turn around to take off my bra and shorts.
“Do you often fuck right after purging?” he asks.
“Not yet,” I say. “But there's always next time, right?” I laugh.
“That's not funny.”
“Do you have a dryer in here?” I ask. He nods, yeah, and picks up my clothes from the floor. “Don't put my sports bra in the dryer,” I say. “That'll ruin it.”
He opens a hidden closet and loads the dryer inside it. His hands linger on the buttons, his shoulders and back tense. Because of me. He's a tense, miserable mess because of me. How can I even consider being with him? All I do is hurt him. And I'm too busy in my ever advancing quest to destroy myself to ever help him. I came here, to his apartment, without even considering his feelings.
What the hell is wrong with me?
“I'm sorry,” I say again. “I haven't been thinking. I've been selfish. I've been awful.”
“I can't watch you destroy yourself,” Luke says.
“I'm not.”
“It's not fair to me, Alyssa. You can't make me watch you destroy yourself because you're so miserable with Ryan. You can't.”
“I know.”
“I've seen this too many times. My mom was so miserable with my dad. And Samantha…” he says. “I'm only trying to survive here. I thought you'd understand that. Isn't that why you're with him?”
“I'm sorry I'm ruining your life,” I say.
“I can't be this person for you anymore. Not if you're going to be with him.”
“I get it, okay? I won't bother you again. I promise.”
He reaches for my hand. His touch is still electric, but it makes me sicker than anything else. What the fuck am I doing?
“Please, get some help. You deserve it.”
I nod as if I agree, but I don't. I don't deserve help. I don't deserve happiness. I don't deserve to see Luke again. I made him light up for a while. I made him happy for a while, but now I'm only making him miserable.
“Listen, Alyssa,” he says. “Ryan is throwing himself, well, the firm is throwing him a birthday party next weekend. He'll try to bring you, but I don't want you to be there.”
“I understand,” I say. There's really only one way to interpret this.
He goes to his bedroom to change and he doesn't come out. I sit on the couch until my clothes are dry. Then, I change into them, collect my bag and shoes, and leave.
***
Relief floods my body when Ryan isn't home. I am a tired, dehydrated mess. I am miserable, more miserable than I have ever been, but I am relieved, because he isn't home, and I don't have to deal with the tension my lies created.
Is this really how you want to live your life? You really want to hide out from your future husband for the rest of your life?
I brush my teeth. I drink a Pedialyte. I try to eat something mild—applesauce and bananas—but I can only stomach a few bites.
I don't love Ryan. It's never been more obvious that I don't love Ryan. It's never been more obvious that I don't like what's between us. But he's perfect for me. We're both perfectly miserable for each other. We're both perfectly miserable.
Luke doesn't want me anymore, and he shouldn't. I've been horrible. I've been selfish. I've been inconsiderate. I haven't deserved him. I don't deserve him. He's miserable over me. He's miserable, and he's saving himself. Isn't that what I was trying to do? Isn't that what I failed to do?
He needs his chance at happiness. He already fucked up with one fucked up woman. He doesn't have the time or energy for me. He doesn't deserve to go through that again. He doesn't deserve to be second choice.
Yes, I love him. I want him. I need him. But that isn't enough, is it? It isn't enough that I could make him happy when I've made him so miserable. It isn't enough that I love him when I hate myself. It isn't enough that I want to help him when I want to destroy myself.
Do I really deserve love? Do I really deserve passion? Do I even deserve to get myself back into some kind of treatment?
I'm never going to be happy like this, but do I really deserve to be happy?
Luke gave me as much as he could. He gave me all of himself. He gave me plenty of chances, and I failed to grab them. I can't take any more of his time or his love or his attention. I can't take any more from him.
He's a good guy. He's funny and charming and considerate. He deserves someone who can be everything to him. He deserves someone who won't make him miserable. He deserves to save himself.
He deserves a life without me.
And, now, all I can really do is survive.
Or not.
Ryan gets home late. He's wearing his suit. He must have been at the office. He doesn't ask about my day or my hike or how I'm feeling after yesterday. He just sees my puffy red eyes and bloated cheeks and leaves two Ativan on the counter.
“I hate seeing you like this,” he says.
“I don't want them.”
“Please, sweetheart. You'll feel better.”
But I don't believe him.
Chapter 34
Everything between us is tense and awkward. I try to give Ryan what he wants. I eat with him. I sleep in his bed. I kiss him, and touch him, and fuck him, trying so hard to feel something other than the dull hurt that permeates my body.
But I don't.
This is the bed I made for myself.
I walk past Luke's apartment on my way to work and drive past his house on the way home. It is always quiet, no matter the time of day. I don't even hear the low lull of the TV.
My days on set are long, but there is too much waiting, and it gets harder and harder to block out images of Luke's misery. I hurt him. I dragged him down with me. I have to stop this destruction. I have to stay away from him.
Ryan insists I come to the party. I try to weasel my way out of it, but Ryan will have none of it. It's his birthday, and he's not going to let my indiscretions get in the way of our life together. He's not going to let my infidelity mess up any more of his life.
The only thing I look forward to is my acting lesson Saturday morning, but, when it arrives, I am out of my league. My coach lectures me for skipping lessons. Sure, I'm on set now, too busy to come during the weeks, but she has a grea
t Saturday afternoon advanced class. It would be good for the other students to work with me, she says, and what's my excuse for skipping practice the last year? She doesn't take my eating disorder treatment as an excuse. Acting would only be good for me. I need a way to express myself, to work through my feelings on stage.
“Okay, my dear,” she says, “enough tormenting you. Here's a monologue. It's great stuff. Right up your alley. I'll be back in sixty minutes.” She hands me a stark white piece of paper, double-sided with an incredibly long monologue. “Remember, this is not a lot of time to rehearse. You need to follow your instincts. You need to make choices and stick to them. Remember, acting is making choices.”
It's her motto. Acting is making choices. She says it every chance she gets. She says it as if she's mocking me for my pathetic indecision.
I read the monologue. I don't recognize it. Probably something from some play no one has ever seen. She loves plays no one has ever seen. They're her favorite.
I read it three times before I start memorizing my lines. It's about a girl moving on with her life, her ex-boyfriend holding her back. Or is it? Does she still love him or does she hate him? Is she in denial or is she running away from her feelings? Conflict is good. Conflict is interesting. I need to make the choice I can play. A happy girl with nothing between her and her beloved isn't interesting. A girl unable to move on because of her asshole boyfriend, maybe in denial about her feelings, that's interesting. That's a choice I can play.
And I understand it all too well.
I get to work on memorizing my lines. I repeat the first line four or five times, until I have it down pat, then I work on the second, the third, the fourth. I check the clock. Only 15 minutes left. My, how time flies. I run through the monologue, just trying to recite the lines. Once I say it perfectly a few times, I try to explore the nuances. I try to follow my character's instincts. Is she happy here? Sad? Angry? All of the above?
My coach returns. “Okay, my dear, let's go,” she says. I hand her the paper and take my place on stage. I start with my previous life. I'm walking in from a meeting with the ex-boyfriend, and I'm tired and a little tipsy. I try to stay in character, finding the anguish and anger and misery in my words. I am acutely aware of the bright lights in my eyes, but I manage to slip back into character, and I don't come up for air until I finish.
I know what she will say. She will say I need to have my actor brain working. She always says that.
“How do you think you did?” she asks.
“Okay,” I say.
“What would make it better than okay?” she asks.
“I wasn't sure how she felt.”
“You only had an hour,” she says. “This scene would usually require four or five hours of rehearsal. For an hour, you did great, but you're right. You weren't sure what she felt and I wasn't sure what she felt either.”
I nod.
“But you were confident and you had a lot of great moments. ‘He's mine.' That was brilliant. That was honest. But when you said his name. What was it?”
“Zack,” I say.
“Did you personalize Zack?”
“I tried.”
“I know you're engaged, and it can be your fiancé if you want, but it doesn't have to be. It needs to be someone you care about a lot. You don't have to love him. You can hate him, but you need to have loved him once. You need someone who still stirs you up inside, because this character, she's stirred up.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“So put someone in mind. Your fiancé, an ex-boyfriend, a boss you hate. Get someone.”
“Okay,” I say.
“Tell me, this person, do you still love him?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Now, imagine this. Imagine you were with him, and he left you, and he suddenly came back into your life. He's playing with your feelings. How does that make you feel?”
I catch myself frowning.
“See,” my coach says. “I understand how you feel here. I understand that you're torn up, so think about him. He's perfect.”
“Okay,” I say.
“Now, let's go through the monologue a bit. Your character talks about her plans for the future. Did you have something in mind?”
I shake my head.
“Think of this guy again. What future did you see with him? Did you see wedding bells? Did you see lots of hot sex? Did you see this exact thing—this painful breakup? How is the future you saw different than the present?”
There was never a future, and the present is a big fucked up mess.
“Remember,” she says. “Playable choices. A big difference between what you envisioned and the present is something you can play. Everything being happy and great and meeting your expectations—that's boring. So, let's try it again, and this time, really think about the future you wanted with him. Maybe it's the future you still want.”
“Okay.”
“Okay, take another 15 minutes,” she says, and I try to run through my lines again, but all I can think about is Luke. What kind of future did I see with him? What kind of future do I want with him? Will I really be happy, will I really survive, if I let him go?
Do I have a choice when he will be so much happier without me?
Or am I acting like Ryan, taking that decision away from him? Do I have any right to decide who Luke should be with? Do I have any right to stay away from him because I deem myself unworthy of his love? Shouldn't I let him make that choice?
No, he broke up with me. He already made it. Now, I have to survive, or not, without him. I have to survive, or not, with Ryan.
My acting coach comes back, and I run through the lines, my mind half-focused on Luke.
“Did that feel better?” she asks.
No, it felt worse. I don't want to get into all these details about my life, but I nod, yes, much better.
“What do you think your character was feeling?” she asks.
“She thinks she made a mistake,” I say.
“And?”
“And she's afraid there's nothing she can do about it.”
“That's good,” she says. “It's complicated. But you can't let your character's fear become your fear. She can be afraid to make a choice. You can't. You understand?”
I nod. I understand, and I ask for something about guns or murder or anything less painful than love.
***
I take a long shower, trying to scrub the thoughts from my mind. I blow dry my hair and pin it up. I apply waterproof eyeliner and mascara, just in case I can't handle this stupid party.
Why am I bothering to get dolled up? It's just another night of Ryan showing me off for the pathetic, divorced men he represents. The ones who leer at me, even when I am covered in a baggy coat.
Luke doesn't want me there. And why should he after the way I acted? If I can't even respect his desires one night, how am I supposed to respect his desire to live a happy life? Maybe I can still get out of this. Maybe I can claim I am sick, or I can get sick, from purging or drinking too much or taking one too many Ativan. I can claim Ryan gave me too much.
But Ryan is careful, and he would never make such a rookie mistake.
I change into the cocktail dress I bought for the occasion. It's a low-cut, girly thing in the softest shade of pink. I zip the dress and check my reflection. I am a vision of elegance, a vision of beauty and grace and exactly the kind of girl a rich lawyer should marry.
So, I'll never love Ryan the way I love Luke. I can still give him what he wants—I can still be the perfect trophy wife—a sweet, demure, young thing with nothing but smiles and compliments.
It's an easy role to play.
I read until Ryan picks me up. “You look gorgeous,” he says, the wheels in his head turning with all kinds of ideas about who he can make jealous.
We both know he wants to make Luke jealous.
We're both such immature, pathetic creatures.
Chapter 35
The party is at a restaurant on the water.
A charming, intimate place where soft, white candles illuminate softer, white tablecloths. It's a small thing, 30 people maybe, all of them laughing and drinking and popping appetizers into their mouths.
I squeeze Ryan's hand. It's supposed to make me feel better. It's supposed to make me feel safe and comfortable.
Are you really still believing that lie?
Ryan introduces me to a client and I slip into my role. I smile and bat my eyelashes and cling to Ryan's side. God, what would Luke think of me if he saw me like this?
Does it even matter what he thinks of me?
I excuse myself and order a tequila on the rocks. I don't mean to drink it so quickly, but I find myself with a fresh glass. Ryan drags me back to the social scene, introducing me to his friends from law school, his hand tightening around my waist. I try to find the comfort in it. I close my eyes and focus on the sensation of his touch, but it feels empty. I feel empty.
By the time I finish my second glass, it is all routine. I shut down my thoughts and turn on the charm. Who is this guy? Who cares? A friend, a client, a legal secretary—it doesn't matter. None of them want to know anything about me. Lucky guy, they say, she's beautiful.
They don't even decide it for themselves. They hear that I am an actress, that I am on TV, and they assume I am beautiful. They only know that I am the kind of girl who is supposed to be beautiful. The kind of girl who is beautiful and nothing else.
But I am used to this drill by now. I am beautiful. Ryan is smart. I am beautiful. Ryan is determined. I am beautiful. Ryan is lucky.
And, then, just when I am sure I've met every stupid asshole here, I see Luke, in a sleek, black suit and royal blue tie, sitting at the bar, drinking what I can only assume is a skinny margarita. He looks exactly how I feel—positively miserable.
If he's this miserable without me, maybe he'll be less miserable with me.
Maybe I should take him at his word, his earlier word at least, when he told me I made him feel alive, when he told me he loved me.
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