“Bitch,” Ryan mutters.
And I stop resisting Luke's guidance.
***
I expect Ryan to follow us down the stairs, but he doesn't. I expect to hear his rough voice or feel his hands around my wrist, but I don't. I hear nothing, feel nothing, think nothing.
Luke leads me through the dark parking garage, his hand glued to mine until we reach his car. The back seat is a mess, much too messy a place for two people to fuck. I try to slow my breathing, but my head floods with images of Luke and Samantha in this car, pushing the shit on the backseat to the floor. Moving to the passenger seat. Giving up on the inside of the car and fucking on the hood.
But Luke would tell me if he'd fucked her. Wouldn't he?
I climb into the passenger seat and press my nails into my fingers.
“I never should have called you,” Luke says. “I could have handled it.”
“I've been with Ryan for a long time. I can handle him.”
“There's only one way you could have handled him,” Luke says.
“I can take one for the team,” I say. “It's not like I haven't fucked him before.”
“Alyssa…”
“He isn't usually like this.”
“An asshole?”
“Yeah.”
“I don't believe you,” Luke says.
“Can we just go?”
“I'm not taking you home,” Luke says. “I don't want you stuck alone with him.”
“I can look out for myself.” It would be nice if Luke really could protect me, but the only person I need protection from is myself. If anything, he's more likely to pull me apart than to protect me. I already lost it once because of him, and that was over something so minor…
“We both know what happens when he gets home,” Luke says.
“And?”
“And you promised me you wouldn't fuck him.”
I should object. It's not fair. It's really not fair for Luke to ask so much of me, but I can't blame him. I'm sick over the idea of him and Samantha and all the love he still feels for her.
“Just drive,” I say. “Somewhere quiet and far away from here.”
He slides the key into the ignition and turns the car on. I squeeze his hand as we pull out of the parking garage, drive around the side streets, and find our way onto Pacific Coast Highway.
***
The car hugs the gentle curves of PCH, driving further and further away from Marina Del Rey, from Ryan, from all of my thoughts. We drive until we are far enough into Malibu that we can see the stars. The sky and ocean bleed together, a brilliant blend of black and blue. We park on some side street, up a hill, next to 10 million dollar mansions. Luke has a blanket in his backseat. Was he using it with her?
The stars are bright here, brilliant balls of light in a sea of darkness. I take my spot next to Luke on the grass, blanket pressed around our shoulders. He puts his arm around me. I rest my head on his shoulders. I want to stay here forever. It is so comfortable. So peaceful. So quiet.
But I can only think of what I've done to Ryan. I hurt him so much. I drove him to a drunken stupor. I made him angry. I try to convince myself it's not my fault, that Ryan is an adult, the responsible one, but no matter how many times I tell myself, I don't believe it. Of course it's my fault. This wouldn't have happened if I wasn't fucking Luke. This wouldn't have happened if I played my role. I am supposed to be the good, trophy girlfriend. I am supposed to be happy in my glass palace, with no responsibilities and all the free time I could want. I am supposed to be happy that Ryan takes care of me.
Or maybe I should be miserable that Ryan treats me like a child.
I shake my head and push away my thoughts. I can deal with Ryan later. But I might not get much more time with Luke. I should savor it. I lie back on the grass and wrap my arms around him. Our chests are pressed together. Our legs are tangled. I can hear him breathe. I can hear his heartbeat. I close my eyes and soak it in.
“Why do you put up with him?” Luke asks. So much for a romantic mood.
“You know why I put up with him.”
“He helped you through a rough time last year. You don't owe him anything.”
“Why do you keep asking the same question and expecting a different answer?”
“Because I want to change your mind.”
“I can change my own mind,” I say.
“He treats you like shit.”
“I'm cheating on him. I'm worse than shit.”
“You're not,” Luke says.
“You have this idea in your head of what Ryan and I are like, but you have no idea. Yeah, he gave up all his hobbies in favor of work, and he can be a little condescending, but he cares about me. He's always been there for me.”
“Then tell me,” he says. “Give me an idea.”
“He was my first real friend. Before that, it was just books. Morbid books that ended with the protagonist drowning herself or jumping off a building because she couldn't stomach the cold, cruel world. He was a little controlling, but I needed someone like that. I hated everything in my life except acting—it was the only time when I allowed myself to really feel things. But it was like opening Pandora’s Box. It was too many feelings all at once, and I had to shut them down. So, I'd get drunk with the burn outs, but that would only make things worse, and I would call Ryan, crying into the phone, telling him I didn't want to do this anymore. That I didn't know how to handle life anymore. But he always took me home and calmed me down. He helped keep me on level ground.”
“Or maybe he kept you from feeling.”
“He was the only person who ever listened to me or took me seriously,” I say. “It was the same when I got sick. He took me home and calmed me down. He lectured a little, sure, but it was the same as in high school. I was eating and throwing up instead of drinking. And I didn't want to do it anymore. I didn't want to do life anymore. I was so trapped and I hated myself so much. I didn't think I deserved to be healthy. I didn't think I deserved another moment of happiness.”
“I'm sorry. That must have been so tough, but you got through it. You're so strong, Alyssa. You can handle so much more than you think you can handle. You can handle it without him.”
I shake my head. “It's been such a long time since I've been okay without him. I can't go through all that again. I won't survive it this time.”
“He called you a whore.”
“I'm cheating on him. I hardly think he was out of line.”
“I'd never call you something like that.”
“You say that now, because you like me. Because I've done most of what you asked. Because I agreed to stop sleeping with my fiancé. In two years, when you're sick of my bullshit, when you're jealous and suspicious, because, after all, I cheated with you, so why wouldn't I cheat on you—”
“I'd never treat you like that.”
“Luke—”
“You're right. He calls you a whore, so what? Good for you. Whores are great. I'm a whore. I sold my conscience to run this stupid business with Ryan.”
“Why do we always have to talk about Ryan?” I ask.
“This is important. I love you too much to let you stay with someone who treats you like that.”
“You love me?”
His cheeks turn red. Jesus, he's cute when he blushes.
“I didn't mean. I just…Yes,” he says. “But we'll come back to that.”
“I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to concentrate on anything else,” I say. I reach for Luke, but he pulls away. This is the wrong time, the wrong circumstance. This kind of thing is supposed to be romantic. It's not supposed to be part of yet another conversation about my fiancé.
“Pretend I didn't say it,” he says.
“But—”
“Please. This is important. I can't sit back and watch the strong, capable woman I know, shrink away because of Ryan.”
“You have it all backwards,” I say. “Ryan is why I'm still here.”
“No, you're strong. Y
ou've been through so much and you're still standing. You're still excitable and passionate and full of life.”
“Is this about Samantha?” I ask.
“No, it's about you.”
“But you wouldn't care as much if she hadn't tried to kill herself.”
“I was too jealous and angry to help her, and, she became a shell of herself. She's been a shell of herself since it happened. She might never be herself again. It's selfish, I know, but I can't bear to watch the same thing happen to you.”
“That's not very fair.”
“You have to make me a promise,” he says.
“Again?”
“You have to promise to leave if he ever treats you like he did tonight.”
I try to come up with reasons to say no, but I can't. Luke is right, isn't he? Why should I stay with someone who gets drunk and calls me a whore? Why should I stay with someone who acts like I'm a charity case, obligated to bend to his every whim. Haven't I made enough excuses already?
The Ryan I saw tonight isn't the Ryan I know or love. But lately, that old Ryan, the sweet guy who put me back together, seems further and further away. Maybe the new Ryan has finally done away with him, because the old Ryan would never treat me like he did tonight. And the old Ryan certainly wouldn't let it happen again.
“Why are you so concerned with whether or not I leave Ryan?” I ask.
“Because I can't bear being second choice to him.”
“It's not like that,” I say.
“We've dealt with enough tonight. I don't want to get into that.”
I nod.
“Do you promise?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, “but I want something in return.”
“I don't think I'm up for it tonight.”
“No, not that. I care about things besides fucking you,” I say. “You have to promise not to talk about Ryan.”
“Not even a little bit? About how awful he is?”
“Not even a little bit.”
“I can do that.”
“All week,” I say.
“I don't enjoy talking about him.”
“Me either,” I say.
“Then why are you with him?”
“We're starting now,” I say.
And, somehow, we both know it's time to leave.
Chapter 26
I watch the stars on the drive back to Marina Del Rey. The closer we get to civilization, the further the stars recede into darkness.
We drive into a residential neighborhood. Quiet streets lined with little houses. There is something familiar about them. Then Luke pulls into the driveway of a house I recognize. It's a charming little thing, blue and white, with an overgrown yard. It's the house he took me to that day I found him on the grass. That backyard must be the place where we first kissed. Where I knew I was powerless to deny the hunger I felt for him.
“I lied before,” he says. “This isn't my friend's house. It's mine. Well, mine and Samantha's.”
“But you have a condo in our building.”
“I live in the condo,” he says.
It's dark and quiet inside. Luke turns on a light in the living room. It's such a normal living room. A big, soft couch. A flat screen TV. A stack of bookshelves.
“So, what are you doing with a house no one lives in?”
“My dad insisted on fronting the money for our down payment. Said no wife of mine was going to live in a crappy apartment in Mar Vista. I thought he was finally softening. Turns out he was guilty he was fucking her.”
“So, you're rich enough to throw money away on two mortgages?”
“She'll buy out my half eventually.”
“How much did you inherit from your father?” I ask.
“Miss Summers, didn't your parents teach you any manners?” he asks.
“I rejected my training.”
“He was partner in a very successful firm. He had good investments. He had better life insurance.”
“If you're so rich, what are you doing wasting your time as a sellout divorce attorney?”
“I don't know,” he says. “I used to have nobler intentions. I wanted to be a prosecutor and put away criminals. I watched too much Law and Order, I think. But I actually like family law.”
“But all you do is watch marriages fall apart.”
“I don't think of it like that. I help my clients get out of a relationship that no longer works for them. Sure, sometimes it's tragic, and some couple that used to be in love hates each other’s guts for a decade of tiny arguments, but it's usually easier than that. People don't want to fight or argue or go through all that suffering. They just want out of the relationship that's sucking all their time and energy.”
“So, you're very romantic about divorce?”
“I guess I'm jealous. I'm still stuck with a toxic partner.”
“Don't start,” I say.
“I know, I know. We aren't talking about the person we aren't talking about.”
“You could go out on your own,” I say.
“It's complicated. I doubt he'll…Well, you were right. We talk about him too much. We should talk about something interesting. Like you. How was your week?”
“Don't stay or leave over me, okay?” I say.
“Don't worry about me,” he says.
“Does it work when I tell you not to worry about me?”
“No, but I still don't want you to worry. Now, how was your week?”
And I tell him all about my 12 hour days of waiting and working and finally finding my footing again. He keeps asking for more and more detail, so I tell him about the episode, about Marie Jane, about all my coworkers—the other actors, the woman who does my hair and makeup, Laurie and her endearing desperation. He starts to smile as I divulge into rambling, and I tell him more and more about how well everything is going and how much I want it all to work out. It is hard—the long days, the waiting, the actual work of acting—but it feels so good to end up at home knowing I accomplished something. It feels good to be back in the world, meeting people and doing things, instead of hiding in my glass cage.
“I've never seen you this excited,” he says. “Not while you were clothed anyway.”
“Pervert,” I say.
“I can't believe he wanted to keep you from this.”
“Luke!”
“Okay, okay, I know. No talking about him. Which means there isn't much to say about my work. Not that it would entertain you to know I got my client twice the alimony she asked for.”
“It wouldn't,” I say.
“Then I bet you don't want to hear about the awful, vindictive man I wouldn't agree to represent. And how little my business partner liked that decision.”
“Luke!”
“Okay, okay. Why don't we watch a movie? Or some TV.”
“Do you have any movies here?”
“I can always download something. Maybe Mahogany. I hear this really hot actress gets naked in it.”
“Fuck no,” I say. “Besides, you can't see anything. The lighting is too dark.” I smile and dig through his collection. He has at least 300 films and a dozen box sets of TV series. A lot of it is pretentious. Probably all the films his mother loved. Did he watch them with her when he was a kid? Did he sit next to her, utterly confused, as she tried to explain the subtler nuances of the plot? Did he enjoy any of the most pretentious crap ever put on screen, as he so eloquently put it, or did he watch it just to spend time with her?
It must have killed him losing her. Then to almost lose Samantha…I shake my head. I've dealt with enough crap tonight. I can't dive into Luke's issues, too.
I settle on a DVD and hand it to him.
“I can't believe you don't keep this with you in the apartment.”
“I'd never get anything done,” he says, and he puts in a disc of Law and Order. I haven't seen enough to know what season it is. I sit on the couch, resting my head on his shoulder. Luke puts his arm around me. And we sit there, watching detectives and lawyers solve m
urder after murder. The DA wins all his cases.
We talk about nothing in particular. Luke explains the show to me—one detective is a recovering alcoholic, another is a good catholic boy—with such enthusiasm I think he's going to wake up the neighbors. We laugh at the cheesy one-liners and high-five every time a judge answers an objection with a smart-ass comment. I'll allow it, but watch yourself, McCoy. I have never seen him like this, so happy, so willing to go along with something. It is a nice change of pace for our usual arguments over why Ryan is wrong for me. Or why I need to stop resisting my better judgment and fall headfirst into our affair.
We spend the entire morning watching. By the time the sun rises, half a dozen killers have faced justice, and only one has escaped with a not guilty verdict. I fall asleep for a while, my head on Luke's lap, and wake to the thud-thud of another episode, to Luke's fingers stroking my hair. It is so soft and sweet and comfortable, I never want to leave.
But I don't have much of a choice.
“Come on, I'll make you breakfast,” he says.
“You have food?”
“Coffee. You like coffee, right?”
“I can make it at home.”
He frowns. “How about I pick something up?”
“Ryan is going to be so mad already—”
“We aren't talking about him,” Luke says.
“Fine,” I say, “but I'm not drinking anything freeze dried or anything from a gas station.”
“What do you want?” he asks, and I give him the address of a cafe a few blocks away. I write down my order. My usual oatmeal and a double-latte with almond milk and two packets of honey. I try not to imagine all the alternative uses for honey.
Luke brushes his teeth and changes his outfit. He offers me a spare toothbrush. I try to entertain myself after he leaves, but I find myself wandering into each room. His bedroom is mostly untouched. A queen bed. They probably had sex here a few dozen times at least. Half the closet is women's clothes—suits and silk blouses. I can only imagine they're Samantha's. I dig through the drawers. One is hers. Nothing but lacy unmentionables. None of that cotton stuff I usually wear.
My heart beats faster. I try to calm down. This is nothing. It doesn't mean anything. It doesn't mean he still loves her. It doesn't mean he still needs her. It means he's slow to clean out his place. It means he's slow to get rid of things. It's not like I'm any better.
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