I cross my fingers as I unlock the door. It's late. Maybe Ryan went to sleep. Maybe Ryan is too tired to argue. Maybe Ryan doesn't realize how late it is.
Shit. The apartment is dark except for a light from his laptop screen. He's awake, but he's working. Maybe he doesn't realize—
The laptop clicks shut and Ryan moves towards me in the dark. “Where were you?” he asks.
“I went for a walk.”
“It's 1 A.M.”
Fuck. It can't be that late, can it? Was I really in Luke's room for three hours? “I lost track of time,” I say.
“I was worried sick. You didn't pick up your phone.”
“I didn't want to talk to you.”
“I don't want to fight, sweetheart. We have a good thing. We should keep it that way.”
“I know,” I say.
Ryan moves towards me. He rubs my arms, softer than I expected. “I thought about it, and you were right. You need something to focus your attention on or you'll do nothing but go to the gym and count calories.”
“Yes.” Is it possible he finally understands? I feel sick. If he understands, things might be okay. If he understands, if he's giving me a little room here, then what the fuck did I just do with Luke?
“I called Corine. I told her you'll take the part.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Isn't that why you threw a hissy fit over dinner?”
“Because I want it to be my decision,” I say
“What difference does it make?” Ryan asks, but he knows very well what difference it makes. “You were right. I wasn't looking out for your best interests, but I am now.”
He is right. I am getting what I wanted. Ryan gave me what I wanted. What does it matter if he didn't do it the way I'd like? I will be an actress again. I will have my life back. Things will go back to normal. Ryan will still look out for me.
I check my phone. I've got half a dozen calls and three messages from Corine. “Darling, I knew you'd come around. Now call me back so we can schedule all the bullshit meetings. The showrunner is dying to meet ASAP.”
I go to call her back but Ryan stops me.
“It's 1 A.M.,” he says.
Ryan is right. I need to calm down. I can call tomorrow, first thing. I can get my life back on track. My life with Ryan. With no place for illicit affairs. With no place for Luke.
“Come on, sweetheart, let's go to bed,” Ryan says.
I brush my teeth, change into my pajamas, and slip into bed next to Ryan. It is not close or sweet or romantic, but it is warm and safe and comfortable. Ryan will always look out for me. I need to remember that.
***
I have an intense dream. I am in Luke's apartment, peeling off my clothes, climbing on top of him, moving from his couch to his floor as he fucks me. I wake up in a cold, panicked sweat. For a minute, I really believe it was a dream, only a dream. Because I am Alyssa Summers, devoted fiancée, honest woman, serious actor. I am not the kind of person who cheats, and I am certainly not the kind of person who cheats on a supportive fiancé.
Acid churns in my stomach all the way through breakfast. I can barely manage my oatmeal or my cup of coffee. I keep looking at Ryan for a reaction. Is he mad at me? Does he know? Does he suspect something happened between me and Luke? How could I do this to him? Ryan takes care of me. He would never do this to me.
Oh, please, misery doesn't absolve you. If you're so wrecked with guilt, confess. Or, at the very least, don't fuck Luke again.
A call from Corine pierces the silence. She's glad I came to my senses. She's excited. She's practically counting the dollars she'll make. We set up a meeting with the showrunner, Laurie House, for this afternoon. She seemed nice. Perky. A perfect distraction from this whole mess.
I spend the next hour poring over the script. It's better than the two page scene I used to audition. It's funny and smart, and Marie Jane is more nuanced than the slutty cheerleader on Together. She lusts after alcohol. She lusts after fame. She lusts after the hot 17 year old Catholic boy across the street.
But, like the slutty cheerleader, Marie Jane likes to take off her clothes. What if she's supposed to be model shaped? I was never a size 2, but I was a little thinner before treatment. I know what TV is like. They ax the lead actress if they don't think men will want to fuck her. But maybe things are different with a woman in charge. Or maybe they will throw me into Spanx and a push up bra, adjusting my fat into the most desirable shape possible.
***
Laurie and I meet at a cafe in Santa Monica. She's self-effacing and funny. “Gosh, you're so pretty in person,” she says, immediately trying to curry favor. “Your agent sent over a package. Audition tapes, scenes from that show you were on-”
“Together,” I say.
“Yeah, what a piece of shit. No offense. It's not like I didn't work on a few shit TV shows,” she laughs.
“The pilot is great,” I say.
“Network loves it, but our star dropped out. And we go into production in a week.”
“So you're totally desperate?”
Laurie laughs, “Yes, but you still deserve it.”
“I got a lucky break.”
“Maybe, but who gives a fuck? My first job was a diversity hire. You know, this TV bullshit where the network ponies up for a staff writer's salary as long as the staff writer isn't a white dude? So, here I am, competing with a few other 'minority writers', and I get it because I'm 'easier on the eyes' than the non-white dudes.”
“Really?”
“Am I that ugly?” she laughs. She's not really. She's cute in that nerdy, smart kind of way.
“You're trying not to look 'conventionally attractive.' That's why you wear those big glasses—they're adorable by the way—and the high-top sneakers and the loose t-shirt. And that's why the only makeup you have on is man-repelling purple eyeliner. Right?”
“Oh, poor, gorgeous Alyssa Summers,” she jokes. “Do people think you're all looks and no brain?”
“I'm used to it,” I say.
“And who cares what they think, right? This town is the worst. Everyone pretends they love you. They pretend you have a yes, and then you never hear from them again.”
I nod. I used to deal with that kind of thing, when I went on more auditions and met with more producers for possible roles. “A bunch of phonies,” I say.
“Yeah, like I need someone to pat me on the back. I'm sure you don't give a fuck if I liked you in Mahogany… Which was how I so rudely ended your audition, wasn't it?”
“I forgive you,” I say. “After all, you did give me the job.”
“Right. That's all that matters. You don't want my praise. You want your paycheck. Right?”
“Right,” I say. “How did you find out why you got your job?”
“One of the producers and I would go drinking together. Or, more accurately, stay in drinking together. He confessed everything. Didn't take much prying either.” She pulls her long hair into a ponytail. “So, who cares? I deserved the job, and I was fucking great. And then I was great at my next staff writing job, and then I got promoted, and then, some 10 years later, I'm here. So who cares if you got a lucky break with a desperate producer? I still think you're going to rock it.”
She certainly has high expectations.
“The pace for this is insane,” Laurie continues, “we need you to do a chemistry read with the rest of the cast. Nothing you haven't done before. Then, you'll get your contract. We'll make everything official. But you're definitely getting the job. We go into production in a week and a half. There's no time to find another star.”
“Lucky me.”
“No, none of that I-don't-deserve-it bullshit. I need you confident. I need you to walk in the room, flash that winning smile, and make everyone else believe you deserve it. Can you do that?”
“Of course,” I say. Easy. No problem. Totally.
“Trust me. I don't care what the suits thought, you were my first choice. You killed it in your
audition, and you're totally Marie Jane.”
“Is that a compliment or an insult?” I ask.
“What do you think of her?” Laurie asks.
“She's desperate for an escape. And she doesn't care about the long term. She cares about the 15 minutes she could spend inebriated by something. Or someone.”
“You're good.”
I laugh. “Enough of this pretentious bullshit,” I say. “Let's read some lines.”
She nods, hell yeah, and pulls out a paper copy of the script. Laurie loves it. Laughs at all the jokes. She even makes excuses for laughing at jokes she wrote. I swear. I forgot how funny this was.
There's a lot of other stuff to schedule. Wardrobe fitting. Rehearsal. Less than two weeks until shooting starts.
Laurie pencils everything into a little black notebook. She's hopelessly low-tech. We hug goodbye—she's a hugger—and she sends me off with an auspicious warning. “There's a lot riding on you,” Laurie says. “You are going to be the heart and soul of this show. It lives and dies by your performance. Get all your life shit out of the way now. I need you at your peak for this.”
No pressure.
I return to my car and check my phone. All clear on the Western front. Nothing from Ryan. Nothing from Luke. Maybe they're both done with me. Maybe they realize I'm a pathetic failure doomed to spin out of control under pressure. Laurie didn't mention my weight. It must not bother her. Or maybe she's too tactful to bring it up. Maybe she prefers to relegate that task to one of her peons.
Deep breath. I can do this show. I am an actor, a good actor, and I understand this character. I can play her well enough.
Maybe I need to talk to Ryan. Maybe I need to feel his arms around me, his steady voice reassuring me he will always protect me.
But I don't call Ryan.
I call Luke.
Chapter 13
“I didn't expect to hear from you today.” Luke's voice flows through my speakers.
What am I doing? “I'm sorry,” I say. “I should go. I don't know why I called.”
“Maybe you like the sound of my voice,” he says. I filter through sarcastic response after sarcastic response, but I can't bring myself to deflect the truth. I like almost everything about him.
“Are you okay?” he asks. Do I sound that shaky already?
“I don't want to interrupt.”
“It's my pleasure.”
“Can we meet somewhere and talk? Or will Ryan notice?”
“He doesn't pay attention to me.”
“How about the bookstore on Maxella?”
“That's awfully close to the office.”
“But Ryan wouldn't be caught dead in a bookstore,” I say.
Luke laughs, and I can practically see his eyes light up. “I'll see you soon,” he says and hangs up. I feel my phone slip out of my hands, onto my lap. When did my palms get so sweaty? When did my heart start beating so quickly? I need to start the car, to pull out of this parking spot, to take the streets back to Marina Del Rey.
The bookstore is across the street from Luke's apartment. But it's my apartment too, isn't it? It's not as if I suggested the location because it would be easy to slip in a quickie at Luke's place. I only want to talk.
***
Luke sits on the curb, reading his dog-eared paperback. Did he really wear that V-neck and jeans to work or did he change in his office again?
He slips his paperback into his back pocket and pushes himself up. His hand brushes my lower back as we enter the bookstore.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“It's nothing I can't handle on my own.”
“Part of having friends means you don't have to handle things on your own.”
“We're friends?”
“Yes,” he says.
“Is that what the kids are calling it?”
I expect him to laugh, but, instead, he looks at me, his coffee-colored eyes full of concern. I feel his fingertips on my skin. I am incredibly aware of the sound of my breath. I am incredibly aware that we are in a quiet bookstore, that it would be inappropriate to touch him. I am incredibly aware that I am not wearing my engagement ring.
“Listen, Alyssa, I meant what I said last night. If my choice is revenge fuck or nothing, I'll be your revenge fuck. I understand if you want a fling before you get married. I hope that isn't the case, but I understand, and I'm more than willing to be used if I get what I want out of it.”
“And what is it you want?”
“Don't get all naïve on me now.”
“So you don't care what happens between us as long as you get laid?” The idea shouldn't annoy me—I am engaged—but it does. Is Luke using me? Is he acting friendly and interested just to get in my pants?
“Would that bother you?”
“How could that possibly bother me?” My voice rises. I look around the aisles. It's so quiet here. I am sure the people on the second floor heard me. Deep breath. I need to calm down. I will not get upset over Luke and certainly not over whether or not Luke and I will have a relationship. We can't have a relationship. Can we?
“You do like to remind me that you're engaged,” he says.
“I am.”
“What am I supposed to think? You're engaged, maybe you're not happy, but you're happy to be engaged.”
“I wouldn't say that.”
“It's fine. You don't have to spare my feelings if you want a couple of fun weeks. We'll both enjoy ourselves and you'll have something to think about at night after your husband fails to satisfy you.”
“Excuse me?”
“Come on, Alyssa. Isn't that you want?”
“Fuck you!” I practically scream it. “Oh, fuck,” I say, covering my mouth. I start to laugh. God, how do I make such a fool out of myself so easily? How does Luke get a rise out of me so easily?
“I've never been kicked out of a bookstore before, but if you really want me to fuck you here, I will.” He smirks, and the tension between us eases a bit.
“I've only known you a few days,” I say.
“True.”
“And I barely know anything about you.”
“What do you want to know?” he asks.
“What's your favorite book?”
“Guess.”
“To Kill a Mockingbird,” I say.
“Exactly right,” he nods. “What else?”
“What do you eat for breakfast?”
“Cereal and a banana. And tea. What else?”
“What were you like in high school?”
“I wouldn't talk to anyone after my mom died. I just sat at home and worked through her movie collection. It was a bunch of art house stuff I didn't understand.”
“French new wave?”
“Exactly,” he says. “When my dad got tired of my attitude, he sent me to a fancy all boys private school. It was better than living with him.”
“Like Holden Caulfield.”
“And Catcher in the Rye is your favorite book?”
“Am I that obvious?” I ask.
“My next guess was A Streetcar Named Desire.”
“You think I'm crazy, don't you?”
“No,” he says. “Well, I think you're crazy for staying with Ryan… but I'm going to try not to antagonize you about it.”
“I don't believe you.”
“What about you? What do you eat for breakfast?”
“Oatmeal and coffee.”
“And what were you like in high school?”
“Lonely,” I say. “I was so miserable until I started acting. It was the only time I felt like I could really express myself. At home, I tried so hard to hide things from my mom. At school… I had a lot of attention from guys—I developed early—but none of them really cared about me.”
“Except Ryan?”
“Yeah,” I say. I swallow the guilt that creeps into my throat. I bring my gaze back to Luke. To his big, brown eyes. “Why do you like me?” I ask.
“Because you know how to hold a conversation, an
d, even though you barely know me, you don't let me get away with being an asshole. Or with using the incorrect pronoun.” His fingertips brush against my hand. “Why do you like me?”
“Because you're good in bed,” I say.
“Is that all?”
“You're also ridiculously hot.”
He smirks. “Fair enough.”
“Because you're clear about your intentions. And you care that Casablanca is bullshit. And you keep that dog-eared paperback in your pocket even though it's falling apart.”
“I'll never defect to team Kindle or team Nook.”
“And you listen to me. You really listen.”
He moves closer, his voice a whisper. “I know it's not fair to ask, but I want to know where you see this going.”
“I have no idea,” I say. I can entertain fantasies of running off with Luke, but I can't really imagine building a life with him. Not yet anyway. Not when I've known him a week.
“Usually people don't start affairs until they know what they want.”
“And you have nothing to do with that?” I ask. “You certainly didn't flirt with me, or come on to me, or flat out ask to fuck me.”
“I asked if I could make you come, not if I could fuck you. I think that's an important distinction.”
“Asshole.”
He moves closer to me, pressing his arms around me. “Listen, I'm sorry,” he says. “You're right. I invited you to my apartment. I knew what would happen, and I was quite aware of your engagement when I started talking to you.”
“But?” I ask.
“But I really like you.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“It's a terrible thing. For both of us.” He runs his hand through his hair again, his eyes scanning the walls. “I wasn't planning on liking you.”
“You had a plan?”
“I'm not smart enough to plan,” he says. “But I didn't think we'd do more than have dinner. Maybe make out drunk at the most.”
“Drunkenly,” I correct him.
“I'm not in the best place for a relationship either, but I can't stop thinking about you.”
“It hasn't even been a week,” I say.
“We don't have to get married tomorrow. But I want to spend more time with you.”
“I can do time,” I say.
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