I run, my feet pounding across the sand, then landing on my dress. Fuck. My hands hit the sand, and the shock reverberates through my body. It's okay. I'll pick myself up. I'll get out of here.
But there's a sound, and it's getting louder and louder. I close my eyes, willing it to go away, but it only gets louder. It's a wave, a huge wave. I cling to the sand in hopes of holding on to something, anything, as the wave crashes on my back.
The water is freezing cold and it's damn salty. I reach for the sand, but there's nothing but water. Freezing water.
I try and tread, but this dress is so heavy. It's dragging me down. I open my eyes and scan the horizon. There, I can see the land. There's a fire. A flashlight. Something. And Luke is standing there, looking at the water. Looking for me.
"Luke!" I scream, kicking as hard as I can. But the tide pulls at my legs. There's no way I'm getting out of this. There's nothing I can do.
It's over. There's no use in fighting. It's better to surrender.
I jerk upright, gasping as I push the blanket off my chest.
The curtains are wide open and the sun is streaming through the window. Outside, it's all glass and blue sky. I'm still in New York City, in this apartment, alone.
But if it's this bright, my alarm will go off any second. Squinting to block out the light, I make my way to the phone. It's nearly eleven. Past my usual wake-up time. I need to get moving. To fix coffee and breakfast, anything to shake off whatever was running through my mind.
Then it catches my eyes--a glint.
The ring.
Jesus, not again.
This isn't like before. It can't be like before. I was miserable before, miserable with Ryan. I knew I was trapped, giving up everything beyond mere survival.
But I'm barely managing survival now.
I bite my tongue. I can't think like that. This engagement is a good thing. I love Luke. I'm happy to be with him. I want to marry him.
It's not like before.
It can't be.
There's a message on my phone, a new text from Luke.
I love you. I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you.
My mouth is dry. My knees are weak. I slump to the ground and pull my legs into my chest.
This can't be like before. It can't be anything like before.
***
The rest of the day goes more smoothly. I move through my usual routine--coffee, breakfast, TV, gym, shower, work--pushing any doubts as far down as they will go.
I'm not the same stupid girl I was a year ago. I'm not about to let these nagging thoughts ruin what I have with Luke. He acts as if he's got all the patience in the world, but there's something in the way he sighs, in how dull his eyes seem when I dodge questions with a "can we talk about this later."
He's losing patience with me. I can feel it.
So, instead of ignoring his text, I respond with a "me too."
Yeah, that's going to fix everything.
The theater is almost empty when I arrive. I'm early. Very early. I lock myself in my dressing room and bury myself in my Kindle. A breezy chick lit should get my mind off this. Should convince me that there's nothing to be worried about.
After all, I already have everything I could want. I have a career. I have a fiancé. I even have a great fucking shoe collection.
My life is perfect. It should feel perfect.
But my heart is pounding in my chest. My lungs are tight, refusing to expand to make way for air.
I will myself to relax. There's only an hour until my performance. Only one hour I have to get through until I'm someone else, somewhere else.
Until I'm anything except Alyssa.
I turn off my phone and collapse on the couch. My eyes drift closed. Someone will make me up when they arrive. Knock on my door. Something to make sure I don't sleep through my damn performance.
My muscles start to relax. Nothing matters except for the next few hours. Get through this performance, go home, and fall apart in my room, alone.
Yes. Just a few minutes without consciousness to reset everything. A few minutes and I'll be okay.
Just... a... few... minutes.
"Alyssa!"
Fuck, not again.
I jerk upright, peeling my eyes open. It's okay. I'm at the theater. That must be the hair and makeup girl.
There's no more time for this. Alyssa Summers, insecure mess, needs to step aside to make room for Alyssa Summers, Broadway actor. Because there is absolutely no room for any of this in the next few hours. No room for anything except Blanche fucking DuBois.
***
After the final curtain call, I retreat to my dressing room. It's a soft yellow from the lights on the vanity. It's not like the dream. It's a yellow-white instead of a yellow-black, but it's unsettling all the same.
I take off my makeup, change into my street clothes, and fish my engagement ring out of my purse. I'm leaving work. It's time to step back into my normal role.
I love Luke. I really do. There's no doubt in my damn mind that I love him. But my skin is crawling and my chest is heavy and I'm certain my next breath will do nothing to bring oxygen into my body.
This is good. This is great. No, it's amazing. It's everything I should want.
But I can't breathe.
There must be something wrong with me.
I'm not about to give in to whatever this is. I love Luke and I'm going to marry him and I'm not going to be afraid of a stupid fucking ring.
No, it's not a stupid ring. It's nice. It's gorgeous, actually, simple and elegant. It was his mom's ring. He gave me his mom's ring.
It's not the same ring he gave to Samantha. He gave her some shit from a chain store at the mall.
I smirk. Luke wouldn't be caught dead at a chain jewelry store. Her ring was also gorgeous, but it wasn't this. It wasn't his mom's. No, he was saving this one. He didn't realize it but he was saving this one for me.
The tension in my lungs eases, just a little bit, just enough that I can suck in a full breath.
I slide the ring onto my finger. It's just a ring. No big deal. Not at all a big deal.
There's another knock on the door. Dammit. Everyone is around today.
"Come in," I say. I check my hair and makeup--good enough--and turn towards the door.
It's Ellen. She smiles. "You wanna go out tonight?"
Where does she get the energy? I'm ready to collapse on this stupid, ugly couch and she wants to go out.
She shrieks. "Oh my God, Alyssa! When did you get engaged?"
Well, fuck. Her gaze is on the ring. This is what it was like last time. When I wore the ring, everyone wanted to see it or talk about it or offer their little commentary on it.
"Monday," I say. "My boyfriend was visiting."
"Damn. This calls for celebration shots."
"I'm tired," I say.
Ellen shakes her head. "So we'll only have one celebration shot." She picks up my purse and hands it to me. "Come on, let's go. I know a great bar. It's all theater people. They know better than to ask for an autograph."
She should have led with that. "Okay," I say. A few drinks might help break up this awful tightness in my chest.
I follow her through the hallway, to the back entrance of the theater. It's dark outside, but it's still warm. Even though she's wearing heels, Ellen walks fast. She has the "no-nonsense, take no shit, take no prisoners" New York vibe. I hate to admit it, but I'm madly jealous. One day, I'll learn not to take shit or prisoners.
"Are you always nervous after a performance?" she asks.
I bite my lip. So I'm not hiding it well.
"Just tired usually," I say.
She turns a corner, ducking into a quiet side street. "Fuck. If I was engaged, I'd be a nervous wreck. I can't imagine any scenario where that doesn't end with me stuck at home with some brat and him fucking his secretary behind my back."
"So you're a romantic." That should be enough to convince her I'm totally doubt free.
&
nbsp; "What I need is someone like Nicholas. Some pretentious tool with no interest in settling down. Who will happily be a theater actor forever." She says it with a grandness, like she's preforming Shakespeare. Then she drops back to her normal voice. "Guys are drawn to my 'delightful spirit.' They love dating an artsy theater girl until they realize it means I'm busy all night, kissing other guys on stage. Then they want to civilize me. Turn me into a good future housewife."
My chest tightens again. Luke has always been upfront about supporting my acting career, but things could change. We never talk much about the future. He must have expectations. He must...
I shake my head. That's ridiculous. He's obsessed with not getting in my way. And after how his father treated his mother... There's no way he expects to civilize me into a good future housewife.
Ellen points to an unmarked black door. She pushes it open and steps inside. I follow her, stepping into a dark dive bar.
It's quiet. A dozen people maybe and soft rock playing on the stereo. There are magenta lights, but everything else is plain-black floor, black booths, black stools.
Ellen waves to the bartender--a cute guy who barely looks old enough to drink. She turns back to me. "What's your poison?"
"Tequila."
"Nice." She smiles, and leans over the bar, pressing her arms together to give the bartender a great view of her cleavage. "Two shots of tequila."
"Both for you?" he asks. His gaze drifts to her chest, just for a second.
She laughs. "Very funny."
The bartender pours the shots and passes them to Ellen. She hands one to me. "To what I'm sure will be an amazing future."
I slam the shot back. Damn. What a waste of good tequila. My face burns, my head already swimming.
Ellen smiles--attagirland takes her shot. She shakes her head, slams her glass on the bar, and motions to the bartender. Two more.
She turns back to me. "You think I can get him to go home with me?"
"Why go all the way home when there's a perfectly good back room available?"
Ellen smirks. "Damn, I like the way you think." She turns back, grabs the shots, and points to a booth in the corner.
I follow her to the booth, settling onto the plush black bench seat.
She looks at me with curiosity, like she's getting ready to return to the subject of my relationship status.
I'll deflect her. "You ever fuck in public?"
"Only a dozen different empty theaters, rooftops, dressing rooms. Never somewhere like this or when people were around." She sips her shot, her face puckering. "Why? You need to brag about some crazy story with your future husband?"
I laugh weakly. It's pathetic. "Nothing like that."
"Hmm. If I didn't know better, I'd say you're fishing for me to ask about it." She leans towards me. "So, tell me Alyssa, what is it you want to confess about this future husband of yours?"
"Nothing."
"I don't buy it. Something is up."
"He's there. I'm here. It's hard." I take a long sip of my tequila. It's crisp, clean. The kind of thing I'd drink with Luke.
"Is that it?"
I nod. "Totally. That's totally it. I love him. He loves me. We're going to be very happy." Jesus, even I don't believe me. But that is the truth. I do love him. He does love me. There's no reason why we wouldn't be happy.
"That sounds awful." Ellen laughs and slams her shot back. "Sorry. That was super rude. I'm sure he, uh, like Star Wars... Luke, right?"
"Like Star Wars."
"Is Luke like Star Wars great? The kind of guy you can see yourself waking up with every day for the rest of your life? Not that I could ever envision anything like that."
He is great. And I can see myself waking up next to him, wrapping my arms around him to try and keep him in the bed. He won't leave me home, all by myself, while he's fucking his secretary.
"Earth to Alyssa..."
"He's great. He's really great. And he's hot as all hell too."
"That counts for a lot." Ellen laughs. She signals the bartender to bring another round.
I slam the rest of my shot. We'll need more of these. A lot more. Something to drown the thoughts that keep trying to surface.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Luke
I'm scared.
It's two little words. Two tiny words. Even if the initial shock is a kick to the throat, they're a good sign. Alyssa is talking to me. Not talking. Texting.
But it's something.
I check the time. Just after seven. She sent this hours ago, around one a.m. here. It's too early to call her. Too early for work.
This can only call for one thing--running until my legs are numb. I change into my shorts and slather on sunscreen. It smells like her, like her when she's at the pool or the beach at least. She's always on my case about wearing fucking sunscreen.
It's warm outside. The early morning light casts a white glow over everything. There's a softness to it, a certain lack of vibrancy.
It's just the morning. It doesn't mean anything.
She's trying to talk to me. It's not exactly a love poem, but it's something.
***
I stay busy at work, again. There is so much piling up. I have too many clients, and several of them are difficult. One woman, Mrs. Waters, has been in the throes of her divorce for almost a year. She rejects every one of her husband's very reasonable settlement offers, insisting she deserves more.
I have a conference or a meeting or a court date with Mrs. Waters every week for the next two months. But if I can convince her to settle, I have a free week at the end of next month.
And then, finally, I'll be able to visit Alyssa.
It's not the safest play. Mrs. Waters is keen to hold on until the end. She's either getting what she wants from her husband or she's getting her ass handed to her in court. In fact, she had some choice words last time I tried to talk her into accepting her husband's offer.
But I'll convince her this is the best offer she's going to get.
It is the best offer she's going to get.
I look at flights. It's a popular week to go to New York, dangerously close to the end of autumn, the last chance for anyone to see leaves changing colors.
Fuck it.
I have to be in New York with Alyssa. Mrs. Waters is going to have to come around. It's in her best interests.
I'll have to dial up my usual charms.
I book a flight to New York, and a trip for the two of us to Hawaii as soon as her play wraps, and email the details to Alyssa. She replies back with a smiley face and a promise to wear her skimpiest bikini.
I make preparations for the week. It needs to be perfect, out of this world amazing. It needs to be dinner at the finest restaurants, moonlit walks, trysts by a fireplace.
This is my best chance to erase all of Alyssa's doubts. I'm going to take it.
It's late when I finish. So late Alyssa must be done for the night. It may not seem like much, but "I'm scared" is practically a soul-baring confession for her.
I put my phone on speaker so I can undress while I call her. I have a change of clothes somewhere around here.
"Hey," she answers. Her voice is sweet but tired.
"Hey yourself." I remove my tie and undo the rest of the buttons of my shirt.
"I, um... I'm sorry I sent such a lame freaking text. I probably should have offered a little more."
"It was perfect."
She's talking to me. That's all I could ask for.
"I just got off the subway," she says. "Can I call you back when I'm in the apartment?"
"Sure," I say. "But I am in the middle of taking off my clothes."
"Oh."
"Mhmm. I can't stand this awful suit any longer."
"You're still at work?" she asks.
"Unfortunately."
"You've been working late a lot."
"I won't make it a habit."
She takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly. "So what are you still wearing?"
"My boxers."
If she were here, she'd be staring at me with her tongue hanging out of her mouth. And I could press her against the wall and rip off her clothes. It would be perfect.
She takes a nervous breath. "I'll call you back in five minutes. Don't even consider starting without me."
"Starting what?"
"Mr. Lawrence, I know you aren't that naive."
Alyssa is finally trying to talk to me. I shouldn't ruin that with sex, but my body is not cooperating. I can see her in that apartment, slipping her dress off her shoulders, sliding her fingers over her curvy thighs. I can see her eyes pressing closed, her teeth sinking into her lips, her back arching. She's moaning, squirming on the bed, digging her toes into the sheets.
I tighten my fists. No. Net yet. I won't let my body get the best of me, no matter how damn good it would feel to come with her.
It's not happening until we finish this conversation.
My phone rings. Alyssa. I pick up, about to say hey, when she speaks. "Are you alone?"
I could lie, tell her my assistant is here, that I'm not ready yet. But my body won't allow such a thing. It needs some possibility of this ending with her moaning in my ear. "Yes."
She takes a shallow breath. "And you're... God, this is still weird."
"Ally, maybe we should talk first."
I cringe, expecting resistance. But there's nothing but her breath.
"Okay."
"You're scared," I say. The words are toxic in my mouth, an awful taste I can't get out.
"I'm sorry."
My heart sinks. She's such a martyr sometimes, trying to take on the weight of the whole fucking world. I'm not sure there's any way to convince her she could never be a burden. But that won't stop me from trying.
"Don't do this. Don't hang yourself because you're afraid you're disappointing me. I'm glad you're talking to me."
"It's an impulse."
"Because of Ryan?"
"Because of a lot of things." She takes another deep breath. "This is so much harder when you're not here."
"Pretend I am."
"I just shook my head, but you can't see that. It's not the same. It never is."
She's right. It's not the same. It never is. "Go to the bedroom and wrap your arms around a pillow like you're hugging me."
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