There's a lightness in my body. I know this isn't the time to extol Alyssa's virtues, but she is a person with integrity. And she's so much more. "She's amazing."
"Amazingly hot?"
I shake my head. "She's thoughtful. She's sweet. She's smart as all hell. Reads the most English grad student stuff. And she's so passionate about what she does. You know how that gets me."
Samantha folds her arms. "I get it, Luke. She's hot and smart and puts up with shit like you being here. What more could you expect?"
"I don't care that she's hot."
"Uh-huh."
"Don't get me wrong. She's amazingly hot. But I'd be with her even if she was a hideous beast."
"That's what guys always say when they're dating hot women."
"It's not about how she looks. It's about... do you really want me to get into why I'm madly in love with my girlfriend?"
"I'll give you one guess." She almost cracks a smile. The mood is finally starting to lighten a little, and the room feels a little brighter and more colorful. She looks down at her blanket, entirely focused on pulling lint off it. "I thought you'd leave after yesterday."
"You know it's harder than that to get rid of me."
She takes a moment to compose herself and looks straight at me. "You shouldn't be here. I don't want to take you away from your life."
"I want to be here."
"Why?" Her voice is low, like she really doesn't know.
"You're my best friend. This is what friends do." I scoot my chair closer to her.
She cringes. "Are you sure?"
"Positive."
"My dad is going to flip if he sees you around."
"You're almost thirty--"
"Thanks for the reminder. That really helps my mood."
"Okay," I say. "Tell me what you want me to do, and I'll do it. I'll visit at strange hours, or I'll meet you at some lame organic restaurant, or I'll climb up your trellis like Joey Potter."
"Who?"
"Dawson's Creek."
She stares at me like I'm speaking a foreign language. I always forget how little Samantha knows of pop culture.
"Use English, please," she says.
"Okay. Dawson lives on the creek in Capeside and Joey is his best friend. She's from the wrong side of the tracks, but she's a great student. Very smart and into art and literature. He's more lowbrow and painfully earnest. He lives and dies for Spielberg."
"One more word about that stupid teen soap and I will slap you," she says.
"If that's how you want to be." I throw my arms up in mock outrage. "I'm here if you need me."
She nods and pulls her cardigan tighter.
I bring my gaze back to hers. "Are you going to talk about this with a professional?"
Her eyes stay on the window. "That's not any of your business. If you want to stay and keep me company, I'd be glad to beat you at rummy, but I'm not talking about it."
"You only have to answer one question."
She looks at the window. It's flooded with light, but the curtains make the whole room dim and dull. "I'll consider it."
"Was there anything I could have done?"
Her eyes go cold. "Jesus, Luke. Not everything is about you."
She shakes her head. She's right. I know it's not about me, but still... I could have done more. I could have helped more.
She brings her gaze back to my eyes. Her face is completely unreadable, but I know she's hurting. I know there are things she can't bring herself to say.
She folds her arms. "No go buy a pack of cards at the gift shop. We have enough time for a few games."
"Next time, I'll smuggle in a bottle of Cabernet."
She smiles. Finally, a full smile. It's possible this will work out okay.
***
I spend the rest of the day glued to my laptop. I'm buried in work, but my mind keeps drifting back to Alyssa.
I still need to find some way to make this up to her. A small gesture at the very least. She deserves more. Hell, she deserves everything the world has to offer, but my options are limited.
It has to be something she'd really enjoy.
Something just for her.
So basically, tequila or coffee.
I'm not sending her a drink typically reserved for drowning sorrows.
But the coffee... She's mentioned Laurie's shitty coffee maker before. There's this horribly futuristic contraption she wants. It's Japanese and it's supposed to make the world's most amazing coffee.
And she's always going on about what shitty coffee Laurie buys--awful generic stuff from the grocery store. God, Alyssa is adorable during these rants. Why would she do that to herself? It's like eating drugstore chocolate. I assume. Or like... like going out for fast food when she could eat at a five-star restaurant. That stuff is shit--the bottom of the barrel. Like the tea dust you're always going on about. You know, the shitty bags with no flavor. That's what this is, and she buys it ground. She doesn't even have a coffee grinder. I'm not saying she needs to spend twenty dollars a pound on beans, but for the love of God, she could do better. She only shops at Whole Foods. They have good shit there!
She gets the most satisfied look on her face when she takes her first sip of coffee. There's only one other time where I've seen her that satisfied.
I pour over the options online. Then I see the perfect coffee maker for her. It's hot pink.
But I can't give her this if she's only got crappy store brand coffee. And it's unlikely Alyssa will allow herself the pleasure of buying beans she actually enjoys. What was that brand she liked? Something from Portland or Seattle or some place that actually has trees.
Stumptown.
I buy her a bag of beans, the glorious hot pink pour-over contraption, and a grinder, and I send it overnight.
But it's not enough. I need to tell her all this, to do more to remind her how much she means to me.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. She won't appreciate anything sappy or cheesy. It has to be real. She has to feel it.
I compose an email.
Ally,
God, Ally, I'm sorry I wasn't there for your premiere. You were so great, and I promise I'll do whatever I can to make it up to you. Even if it means shelving all serious conversations about where are relationship is going.
I've felt lucky every day, ever since that glorious moment when you told Ryan to go fuck himself with your engagement. Ever since you chose me. But I've never felt luckier than last night.
I still can't believe my luck that you want anything to do with me. I pinch myself when I wake up, because I think I'm dreaming.
I'm sorry I keep trying to rush you. I didn't do things well before either. But, God, I love you so fucking much. I feel it everywhere, all the time, wherever I go. I love you so much, and every single inch between us hurts. I want you to live with me. I want you to be my wife.
But I know I'm getting ahead of myself.
I just want you to know I'm in it for the long haul, Ally.
You're the best thing in my life. I don't even know what my life was before I met you, because I can't imagine it without you. I can't imagine not coming home to see you glued to your Kindle again, pretending not to gasp over the dramatic twist in whatever it is you're reading. I can't imagine not arguing over what to watch on TV. Or not mocking old movies with you. I can't even imagine waking up and drinking all my tea, instead of losing half of it to you. I'd so much rather you have that half of my tea.
I'm sorry I'm here. I promise it has nothing to do with us. I'm still all in.
And I promise that when I get back to Los Angeles, I'll make this up to you in a much more... exciting way.
I'm all yours.
Always.
Love,
Luke
CHAPTER SEVEN
Samantha almost shrieks when I pull out the Cabernet. It's not a bottle. It's a juice box. Well, a wine box.
Her jaw drops. "I thought you were joking."
"I'm not that cruel." I
place two water cups--flimsy plastic things--on the table attached to her bed. "When are you getting out of here?"
"Tomorrow."
That doesn't leave much time to make sure she's not going to do this again, but I'll make do.
I pour the wine into the tiny cups. It's such a violent, vibrant shade of crimson that the whole room fills with color.
She brings the cup to her lips and takes a tiny sip.
"Is it acceptable?" I ask.
She smirks. "I'm not in a position to be choosy."
The wine stains her lips the same vibrant shade. Her whole face floods with color.
She takes another sip, a greedy one this time. "Better than I expected from a juice box."
"It's easier to smuggle than a bottle."
"There's nothing in the hospital policy that specifically forbids wine."
I run my fingers over the edge of the cup. "What would your doctor say about it?"
"You mean the doctor who knows what really happened but believed my dad's story because they're golfing buddies?"
I drag the ugly green chair, placing it next to her bed, and I take a seat. "You don't have to stay with your parents."
"I thought it would help," she says. "Get away for a while. There was so much gossip floating around the office, especially when people heard I landed in the hospital. You must remember."
"You were vague about what happened."
She looks at me like I'm an idiot, again. "What am I supposed to say--I was fucking the boss, who, as you guys probably know, is my fiancé's father. And I got so depressed after he died that I swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills?"
"It's okay for a first draft."
She shakes her head. "It was better to say nothing."
We're quiet for a while. We stare into our plastic cups of wine, sipping it so we won't have to talk. Samantha stares at her fingers. She squeezes her cup so tightly I think it will break.
I bring my eyes to hers. "Why don't you come back to Los Angeles?"
"I might. I certainly can't stay with my parents. They treat me like I'm fourteen. I don't have anything to do except sit in the study and look at my law school textbooks longingly."
"Read them."
"I do. It's pathetic. It's like I'm taking Torts 101 for the first time." She finishes her glass and motions for me to refill it.
I give her a look--should you drink so much?
She strains not to roll her eyes. "You don't get to boss me around anymore, Lawrence. I'm not your girlfriend. I don't have to listen to you."
"When did you ever listen to me?" I oblige her with a refill.
Two glasses worth of wine and she's happy. Three, and she's mouthy. Four, and she throws a fit. A very tiny, contained fit that no one will ever see. She does care about appearances, even with me.
She smirks, her voice brimming with confidence. "When I was trying to get in your pants." Color floods her face as she drinks, like the red of the wine is bleeding into her cheeks. She looks down at her cup. "I feel like I finally remember why I ever cared about the law."
"He killed your passion, didn't he?"
"Luke, please don't--"
"Why not? I can handle it."
"Maybe I'd rather not talk about it with you," she says. "Have you considered that?"
I nod. It's painfully obvious that Samantha doesn't want to talk about her affair.
She finishes her cup and sets it on the table. "I'm sorry, okay. I don't know if it's possible for me to apologize enough, but I am sorry. I should have told you from the beginning. I shouldn't have lied for so long."
I swallow hard. "Don't you hate how 'I shouldn't have fucked him' isn't on that list?"
She lowers her voice, her eyes on the floor. "I'm sorry. I really am. I should have ended things way before I did. You didn't deserve that."
"It's okay. I wouldn't have let you end things if you'd tried."
She adjusts her glasses and looks me square in the eye. "Please, Luke. Don't tell me it's okay again. I'd feel so much better if you called me a cunt and told me you never wanted to see me again."
"Would that do us any good?"
"Tell me the truth."
"We've been over this."
"But you always sugarcoat it." She holds my gaze, staring at me like she really wants me to unleash a flurry of insults.
I did hate her, for a while, but it was hard to stay mad after she tried to kill herself.
I finish my cup of wine and place it on the tray. "You're not a cunt. It wasn't the best thing you've ever done, but you're not a cunt."
"I'd feel so much better if you hated me as much as I hate myself for it."
"Too bad. I don't."
"You didn't hate me when I told you I was in love with Edward?"
"No, I hated him." My fingers curl into fists. There's a tension in my shoulders but I shrug it off. "I hated him before that, and I still hate him. I'll hate him for a million years. He could come back to life, and devote all his time and money to helping the needy, and I'd still hate him. He could die a million times, and I'd still hate him."
"Luke..."
"Do you want the truth or not?"
Samantha lowers her voice to a whisper. "Are you ever going to get over it?"
"Why should I? He's a fucker. He basically killed my mom. He almost killed you--"
"No, I almost killed me. Twice."
"It was his fault. You were different before him. You were happy."
"Maybe we shouldn't talk about this." She pushes her blanket off her chest.
She looks so small and fragile like this, even with the sweater covering her tiny paper gown.
"Okay," I say. "I was angry at you when you told me. I mean, you were fucking my father. The guy I hated more than anything. And you were so full of shit--you held my hand during my insane rants about how much I hated him."
"Someone had to."
"He's not even handsome."
"You got it from somewhere," she says.
"Don't flatter me. You already made me angry."
"Okay." She hugs her chest. "I want to hear it. I want to feel that hate. I deserve it."
"You don't deserve it."
"Fuck, Luke. Listen to me for once. You don't know what's best for everyone. Just tell me how you really felt in that moment."
"It's getting late," I say.
"Don't back out now."
"I don't know what to tell you, Sam. I didn't hate you. I was mad, but mostly at myself. And mostly at him. The fucker stole my girlfriend."
"What happened to 'women can't be stolen'?"
"Fuck him. He stole my girlfriend. How were you supposed to react when this handsome, rich, powerful man showed interest in you?"
She folds her arms. "I thought he wasn't handsome."
"Of course he was handsome. He looked like George Clooney."
"Stop making excuses for me."
"Okay, okay. It was a bitch move to sleep with him."
"Thanks."
"And even worse to lead me on for so long. But... I still don't hate you." I take a deep breath and make a point of unfurling my fingers. "Now, maybe we start that game of rummy before someone notices our raised voices and confiscates our wine."
She nods. I pull the cards from my pocket and start to shuffle. When I look up, Samantha is holding my gaze.
"Thanks," she says.
"For what?"
"For being honest." Her eyes turn to the floor. "And for being here."
***
I pore through work all evening. As usual, Ryan is attempting to bury me in a pile of work. He's willing to do whatever it takes to convince me to sell.
But my irritation fades away when I see an email from Alyssa. She never emails. She barely uses the computer.
Luke,
Why didn't you warn me how fucking sweet you are when we met? Insane, but sweet. How the hell did you get a pour-over to Laurie's place so quickly? You know what--don't tell me. I don't want to know about the freaky drones that ar
e going to take over the world.
The party was as awful as I expected. It would have been easier if you were here--we could have endured the awfulness together--but I understand why you're with Samantha. You care too much, Luke. I'd hate it if I didn't love it so much.
I'll tell you more about Laurie's drunken antics later. God, she was a terror. And she kept me up so late. And, okay, I admit it, I may have drunk two or three too many tequila shots. And maybe I woke up with a head-splitting hangover, and maybe I spent way too much time trying to figure out how far I went over my daily calorie allotment. But she had such good shit.
So, thank you. I really need the coffee today, and OH MY GOD it is so, so much better than the crap Laurie keeps in the freezer. Can you believe how low her coffee standards are? It's one thing to not like coffee. Fine. Plenty of people don't like coffee. But to keep it ground up in the freezer in that stupid plastic tin. It should be illegal to drink such awful coffee.
And before you even start, no, it should not be illegal to put honey in coffee. Honey and coffee are madly in love. Even more than we're in love.
And we are, Luke. I love you so much. But, the scary thing is, I know what my life looks like without you--and it looks like total shit.
I'm so happy with you. I really am. I feel like I'm lighter than air when I'm around you. You're my trigger whenever I need to project love or joy or, obviously, lust.
It's not that I'm not all in. I am. I just need more time. I need to feel like I know who I am. Because you're consuming, and as much as I love that, I can't get consumed again.
I worry I'm going to be like the Alyssa of the past. But I don't want to be her anymore. I want to be strong. I want to be independent. I want to stand on my own.
Because that's how we'll know it's real--if we're together by choice, not out of a lack of better options.
God, I'm rambling. I'm sorry. I'm trying really hard to stay away from reviews, but they're so fucking tempting. And they're all at my fingertips.
Come back soon, okay?
Love,
Alyssa
P.S. If you, for some reason, come back in love with Samantha, I'll take Laurie up on her offer to have you killed. Don't make me complicit in murder. I'll crack on the cross, and I'll be an awful prisoner.
P.P.S. This isn't a threat... more of a hypothetical. For legal reasons, of course.
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