Fill Me

by Crystal Kaswell

  I don't think about what I like. I eat food I know won't mess with me mentally or physically.

  "I eat oatmeal."

  "Fuck oatmeal," she says. "Get something good. Your BFF is visiting you in New York City. You need to celebrate it."

  I narrow my eyes. "Not that you care?"

  "Okay. Order whatever makes you happy. You like oatmeal, order oatmeal. It's not like oatmeal is the most boring, awful breakfast food. And it's not like you could have oatmeal at home for twenty-five cents any time you want."

  "Maybe I like oatmeal."

  "Okay, fine. You like oatmeal, you want oatmeal. Whatever. I'm sure you still have to watch your weight."

  The waitress returns and I butt in before Laurie can order. "We're not ready yet, but can we get more coffee? And more almond milk? Thanks." I turn back to Laurie, folding my arms. I'm not going to start with this. Not today. Hell, not any day.

  "At least you like the coffee," Laurie says. She shakes her head, slightly irritated.

  I'm not about to open this can of worms.

  "I really do like oatmeal."

  She taps her fingers against the table, her jaw tensing. Then she shakes her head as if to say forget it. "So tell me about the show. I want to hear everything."

  "There isn't that much to tell," I say.

  "Are you kidding? There has to be some gossip. Are any of the actors horrible?"

  "Stanley, uh, Nicholas, is pretty horrible. He's a great actor but he's a pretentious tool. He doesn't talk to anyone. He doesn't take direction. Don't get me wrong. He's fantastic during scenes, but he's a total weirdo when we aren't rehearsing."

  "Is he hot?"

  "You're incorrigible," I say.

  "That's a yes." Laurie stirs her coffee and takes a sip. "Damn. That really is good coffee. No wonder you were going all When Harry Met Sally over it."

  Of course Laurie has to relate everything to some movie or TV show. "How is everything back home?" I ask.

  "Same old, same old. I had a few meetings, watched a ton of TV, went hiking a bunch all by myself." She fakes a pout. "My friend Zack visited so I got to show him around L.A. He's one of those 'I'll never leave New York' guys."

  "I never heard about this Zack."

  "Don't worry. There's room in my heart for both of you."

  "So you like him like him?" I ask.

  "No way." She folds her hands together like she's negotiating. "You can meet him tomorrow. After I see your show."

  "You shouldn't see it."

  "Why don't you want your friends to celebrate your success?"

  "If I was an accountant and I got a new job, you wouldn't come watch me work."

  "I'm going to see it and you're going to be amazing," she says.

  Laurie is damn excited. I'm not going to get anywhere by pushing this.

  "Okay," I say.

  I finally take a look at my menu. It's huge. Two dozen different kinds of omelets with a dozen different sides. Then there are pancakes and waffles and all sorts of other things that will put me into a guilt-inducing carb coma.

  What's wrong with oatmeal? Why the fuck does everyone object to me eating oatmeal?

  I glance up from the menu to catch Laurie staring at me. The second our eyes meet, she looks away. At her menu. "Damn, they have more stuff than I remembered," she says.

  Deep breath. Sarcasm does me no good here. It only convinces her I'm defensive. So I nod, and I look back at the menu until I find something besides oatmeal that doesn't suggest obsessive health, restriction, or indulgence.

  Something that will get her off my back.

  When the waitress returns, with coffee thank God, I order the veggie omelet, no cheese, with wheat toast, no butter. Laurie hangs on every word like I'm reciting Sylvia Plath instead of ordering breakfast.

  Laurie orders chocolate chip pancakes. With whipped cream. When in Rome, I suppose.

  We hand the menus to the waitress and I turn all my attention to my coffee. To its creamy, robust embrace. The caffeine is finally making its way to my brain, and I'm braced for an all-out attack.

  But I'd much rather avoid that.

  "You want to talk about food, right?" I ask.

  She shrugs. "What makes you say that?"

  "Can we get this out of the way so we can enjoy the rest of our day?" I ask.

  She purses her lips, considering it. "Okay, I am a little concerned."

  "About?"

  "You have a history and you're alone in New York and I'm pretty sure you've lost five pounds."

  "I have not."

  "Well, your tits don't look quite as huge," she says.

  I laugh. "So you're checking out my tits?"

  "Always." She shifts in her seat, clearly uncomfortable. At least that makes two of us. "Just put my mind at ease. Convince me you're doing awesome and that you'll tell me if you have a problem."

  I frown. Why is it my responsibility to convince everyone I'm okay? Why can't okay be my default state?

  "That's not very convincing."

  "I'm doing okay," I say. "Not awesome but okay enough."

  "Can I do anything to help bring you up to awesome?"

  "Let me deal with it on my own."

  She nods. "I don't want to ruin our day. I want to have fun dragging you to all the places I went to in college." She laughs. "And I have awesome plans tonight. You like burlesque, right?"

  "I love burlesque."

  "Great, because I already bought tickets to this amazing performance. It's totally famous in the performance art community. And that is all going to be so much more fun if I'm not worried that you're planning your next binge."

  "I'm not."

  "Are you sure?" she asks.

  "I won't be. If you let off with the 'don't order oatmeal' shit."

  "But oatmeal is so..."

  "Jesus Christ. Did I miss some kind of memo where all the cool kids decided to hate on oatmeal eternally?" I ask.

  She nods. "You haven't been cool in a long time." She takes a long sip of her coffee, formulating some response. "So are you really okay?"

  "I really am."

  She sighs, her shoulders relaxing as her lips curve into a smile. "Then I'll stop."

  "Good." I take another long sip of my coffee, trying to taste every note of flavor. To think about something besides this conversation.

  Laurie is always protective, but this isn't like her. There has to be some reason...

  There can only be one reason for this.

  Luke.

  He must have put her up to this. I bite my lip. I'm sure he meant well, but I'm sick of it. I'm sick of everyone looking at me like I'm about to break.

  "Laurie," I say.

  "You know there are male performers in the show. I think they're gay, but they're still hot."

  "It's not like you to bring up my eating."

  "Oh, well, you know... I was concerned."

  "You were or Luke was?" I ask.

  "We both were."

  "You two were talking about me?"

  "I ran into him."

  "Where?"

  She clears her throat. "He stopped by to say hello."

  "Hello, spy on my girlfriend."

  "He's worried about you."

  "So he should talk to me," I say.

  Laurie brings her attention to me. Her eyes are balls of fire behind her red glasses. "Don't take this the wrong way, but do you actually let him talk to you?"

  "Of course I--"

  "Do you tell him when you're upset? When you need help?"

  I bite my lip. I do. Sometimes. I may not go into lurid detail, but I talk to Luke about how I feel. More or less. "Sometimes."

  "Well, there's a reason why he's worried. I'm not saying you need to tell him every tiny thought you have, but he's obviously not getting enough. Maybe you could tell him something to ease his mind."

  "You're never on his side."

  "I'm not on anyone's side. I want you two to live happily ever after together. But it isn't going to h
appen if you don't talk to him."

  "Maybe."

  "Think about it. It would be a shame to lose someone who loves you so much," she says.

  Does she really think I'm pushing Luke that hard? Does she really think I might lose him?

  The waitress returns with our food, and I push the thoughts away. Laurie is here and we're going to have fun. We aren't going to sit in this little café wallowing.

  Laurie slides her fork into her chocolate chip pancakes. Then she brings the fork to her lips and devours them. "Oh my God, Alyssa, you have to try these." She clears her throat. "If you want."

  "Okay."

  "Really?"

  I nod, and take a bite of the pancakes. It's a tiny bite, but it's something.

  They're good, sweet with a rich cocoa flavor. Laurie practically squeals over my taking a bite, and I know she'll leave me be for the rest of the day.

  I no longer merit concern.

  Now I have to figure out a way to convince Luke of the same thing.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Luke

  Your plan has been exposed. Your operative cracked like a walnut and it really didn't take much. I have her under my control now. It was smart recruiting someone from my side, turning her into a double agent, but perhaps I can turn her into a double-double agent (whatever the hell it's called). I'll keep her in your good graces. You'll think she's working for you pretending to work for me, but really she's working for me pretending to work for you working for me. Don't worry if that sounds confusing. I don't read Tom Clancy.

  I'm staying late at work when I receive Alyssa's paragraph of a text.

  So Laurie "cracked like a walnut"? I'd prefer if she had used a light touch to make sure Alyssa is okay, but anything that gets Alyssa to open up is fine by me.

  I read the text again and I can't help but smile. Only Alyssa would throw parenthetical asides into her tipsy text messages.

  But there's something about it... she needs me right now.

  I call immediately.

  She picks up with a breathy, "Hello." She's tipsy, definitely, but not drunk. "I can't talk." That's the understatement of the century.

  "Ally..."

  "I'm sorry, but the show is about to start. Cell phones off. I'll call you when I get home." There's a long pause, like she's thinking. Or maybe like she's going to say more. "I love you. I'll talk to you later."

  And then she hangs up and the room feels cold and dull.

  I manage to shift my focus back to my work for hours, until I have nothing left to do. It's past late, almost midnight, and I've yet to eat dinner. Maybe Alyssa was honest about skipping meals. She forgot. No big deal.

  Or maybe something is really, truly wrong.

  I'm about to head home when my phone rings. My heart thuds against my chest. Please be Alyssa. Please be Alyssa.

  But it's not. It's Laurie.

  "Hello," I answer, my voice short.

  "Don't take a tone with me," she says. "I did what you asked."

  "How is she?" I ask.

  "There's a lot going on, but she's holding it together."

  I don't like the sound of that. "And she's eating okay?"

  "Her eating is the least of your concerns. You two seriously need to communicate. And not, you know, go between your mutual friend."

  "Does that mean I've been promoted from annoyance to friend?"

  "I guess," Laurie says. "I'm going to go. I'm tired. But I figured you were worried after those weird texts."

  "You saw them?"

  "I may have snooped after she fell asleep." She sighs. "Listen, Luke. You need to get over here as soon as you can. She misses you like crazy."

  Laurie is right. I wanted to surprise Alyssa last week, but one of my client's court dates changed, and I couldn't get away.

  There's no way Alyssa will ask me to visit. She won't want to interfere with my life. I need to see her in New York and I need to do it soon.

  Hell, I can make it happen now. "I can get there next weekend. Don't say anything. I want it to be a surprise."

  "Can or will?" she asks.

  I log back onto my computer and pull open a travel website. "I'll have tickets in less than five minutes."

  "That's going to cost a fortune."

  "Yeah, but money is nothing compared to Alyssa."

  "Ugh! You're too sweet. It's sickening," she says. "This is the last time I get involved in your business. The absolute last time."

  Leave Sunday, return Tuesday. I'll have to move around a few appointments, but I don't care. If Alyssa needs me, I'll be there.

  "Thanks, Laurie," I say.

  "Yeah. You're welcome. I guess."

  We hang up, and I read over Alyssa's texts again and again. She doesn't sound okay. She sounds like she's coming unglued. But I can help her hold herself together.

  ***

  Curtain is eight o'clock, but I arrive at the theater as soon as the doors open--seven thirty. My mother didn't take me to plays often--there weren't a ton of opportunities in San Diego--but when she did, she always arrived early to marvel at the inside of the theater.

  And this place is a marvel. Gold walls, plus red chairs, soft yellow light everywhere. I drink a glass of wine, barely able to contain my anticipation. This is the first time I'll see Alyssa on stage. She's going to be amazing.

  Then tonight will be just as amazing.

  I take my seat, fiddling with the flowers I brought for Alyssa. They're roses, vibrant red roses. It's an obvious choice, I know, but they remind me of her. Strong and delicate and ready to prick me when I try and get too close.

  Not tonight. Not this weekend. This weekend will be perfect.

  The theater fills in. It's the official opening week of the play, and it's a packed house. Alyssa is probably a nervous wreck about it. I'm tempted to call her and wish her luck, but I'm sure she's busy "in the zone," the way she gets when she locks herself in her room to memorize her lines.

  Then the lights go down and the play begins. There's a short scene--the two male leads shooting the shit--then Alyssa's character steps on stage. She stares into the blindingly bright lights coming from the balcony. Then her eyes pass over the audience like she's looking for something or someone.

  Then they stop at me. Her mouth drops open, and her face shifts. For a split second it's not Blanche, it's Alyssa, and she's shocked to see me. She shakes her head and slips back into character. Her posture changes. It's longer, more sultry, more confident and more insecure at the same time.

  She's amazing.

  I almost can't believe she spent so much time tearing her hair out, stressing over how to play to the back of the room. Because she's nailing everything. She's easily as good as the apparently pretentious Nicholas.

  I forget my plans for the rest of the weekend. I forget everything except watching her on stage, moving and speaking and living with effortless grace.

  How the hell did I get so lucky?

  Intermission comes and goes quickly, and I'm back in my seat, drawn into the other world of the play. It's as gripping and beautiful and tragic as Alyssa claimed, and when it ends, I'm on my feet applauding.

  She's so fucking amazing.

  An usher taps me as people filter out of the theater. "Miss Summers has requested you come backstage." I grin and follow him, like I'm some cheap groupie at a rock concert.

  She's got her very own dressing room.

  The usher points me to the door and I knock.

  "Get your fucking ass in here," she says. She pulls the door open and scans my body with her eyes. "You fucking... why didn't you tell me?"

  "This is more exciting," I say.

  I offer the flowers and her face lights up. She grabs my hand and pulls me into the room, slamming the door behind us.

  Alyssa tosses the flowers onto the vanity and presses me against the door. Her body is so soft against mine, and I'm desperate to slide her robe off her shoulders, to touch her until she purrs.

  But not yet.

  In
stead, I slide my arms around her, pulling her close. I feel her hands on my waist, her head against my chest as her body melts into mine. "You have no idea how glad I am to see you," she says.

  "No idea?" I ask.

  She nods, hugging me tighter. "I better wash my makeup off or I'm going to ruin your suit." She pulls back, wiping a tear from under her eye. "You look hot as hell in that."

  "I look hotter in nothing," I say. She blushes, pulling her robe around her shoulders. "If you're lucky, you might see that tonight."

  "If I'm lucky?"

  I nod. "I'm not easy, you know."

  "I know." She grins and takes a seat at the vanity. "How was your flight?"

  "I worked the whole time. So now I can devote one hundred percent of my attention to you."

  She fiddles with her makeup remover, pouring it onto a cotton ball. "This is so disgusting. You shouldn't watch."

  "You were amazing," I say.

  "I won't object."

  She washes off her makeup, then slips out of her wardrobe. She makes a point of lingering in her bra and panties before she pulls on a low-cut cotton dress. Damn. Maybe she did know I was coming.

  I move closer to her, wrapping my arms around her as I kiss her neck. Mhmm. She smells so good. Like my Alyssa. "I'm going to take you out to dinner," I say.

  "It's ten thirty."

  "Have you eaten?"

  She shakes her head. "Let's not get into that."

  "We don't have to discuss it in detail," I say. "But I would like to feed you before I use up every last ounce of your energy."

  Her jaw drops and she stammers. "We'll see." She offers her hand and I take it. We make our way out of the theater, through the back entrance where no one will spot her.

  We eat at a nearby restaurant, a deli known only for being open late. Alyssa orders a salad and a cup of soup and she eats all of it without comment or protest. She doesn't even make a fuss about me watching her.

  "Tell me everything about the play," I say, and she does. She talks about every little thing until our last scraps of food are cold. She's so animated, I soak in every single one of her words. I've never seen her so excited. At least, not while she was clothed.

  ***

  After dinner we can't get to the apartment fast enough. Our cab feels like it's crawling at a snail's pace. Alyssa is sleepy but it doesn't stop her from slipping her hands under my suit jacket and dragging her lips against my neck.