Rouse Me

by Crystal Kaswell

  “Do you love me?”

  It's not a fair question. Our relationship has never been romantic. It's never been about silly ideals like love. But what good are those silly ideals? What use do I have for Luke's love? It didn't compel him to stay. It didn't keep us together.

  “If you're going to leave me, do it,” I say. “Don't drag this out. I can't take it.”

  “Give me one reason why I shouldn't.”

  “Because I need you.”

  “Do you love him?” Ryan asks.

  “It's over,” I say.

  “But do you love him?”

  All that hurt bubbles up to my chest, and I stifle a tear. Do I love him? How could I? I barely know him. How could I possibly love someone I've known for months more than the man I've been with for years? How could I ever let myself fall in love with Luke when Ryan has done such a good job protecting me? How could I be so pathetic? How could I be such a failure?

  “Why does it matter? It's over. I'm never going to be with him again.”

  I'm never going to see the joy in his eyes, or hear his laugh, or feel his fingertips. I'm never going to listen to him go on about Law and Order or mock the honey I put in my coffee. I'm never going to lay my head on his chest, or fall asleep on his couch, or wake up in his arms.

  “You don't sound happy about that,” Ryan says.

  “I can't survive without you.”

  “And that's all this is—you need me to help with your recovery plan?”

  “Of course not.”

  “What else do you need me for?”

  “I'm not strong enough, Ryan. You said it yourself. I'm insatiable. I never have enough. You're the only person who can tell me when I've had enough.”

  He moves to the couch and folds his arms, staring out the window at the calm water of the marina. I sit next to him, moving closer, expecting him to stop me. But he doesn't stop me.

  “Why did you do it?” he asks, not looking at me.

  “I was angry.”

  “That's it? You were angry?”

  “I needed someone to talk to, and he listened.”

  “That's it?”

  “He listened and he asked nicely,” I say.

  “You're a whore.”

  I recoil. He's mad. He has every right to be mad. After all, when I was mad, I went and fucked Luke. Is it really so bad if Ryan calls me a whore? It's certainly no worse than fucking someone else.

  But the way he says it, the hatred in his voice…Maybe I deserve the hatred.

  “Why did you keep doing it?” he asks.

  “What do you want me to say, Ryan? I liked him, okay. I liked spending time with him and kissing him and fucking him. I liked the attention. I liked that he cared about me. I liked that he wanted what was best for me.”

  “I don't want what's best for you?”

  “You do,” I say.

  “Do you not like fucking me?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “But not as much as you like fucking him?” Ryan asks. There's no way to answer this question. I can't exactly say that Luke is leagues better than Ryan. And I can't deny it, because if I didn't prefer Luke, then what the fuck was I doing having sex with him?

  But I did prefer him. I prefer everything about him.

  But Luke is already taking care of someone. He already loves someone. He doesn't realize it, but he sees her whenever he looks at me. He doesn't realize it, but he's obviously shit at dealing with fucked up women.

  “What difference does it make? I choose you. I'm with you.”

  “Do you prefer him or not?” Ryan asks.

  “Anything I say will hurt you.”

  “Can you give me one reason why I shouldn't kick you out of this apartment?”

  “Because I love you.”

  “But not as much as you love him?” Ryan asks.

  “I don't love him the way I love you.” That part, at least, is true enough.

  But Ryan sees through me. He locks himself in our bedroom and spends the night alone. I sleep in the spare room, trying desperately to convince myself I was right to let Luke walk away.

  Chapter 32

  The view is so beautiful it makes me sick. The entire city of Los Angeles lies on our left—the Santa Monica Pier, Century City, Downtown—and an endless expanse of ocean is on our right. The sky is so clear, I can see for miles. How far away is the horizon? Ten miles? Twenty? A hundred? How far would be far enough to be away from all this?

  Laurie takes a picture with her phone. She motions to me—get in the photo—but I stay put. She's horribly addicted to social media, and I don't want to be retweeted or liked or reblogged. I gave up my accounts when I went into treatment and I have no desire to regain a web presence.

  “You're no fun,” she says, and I suck water from my reusable bottle. Why didn't I cancel this hike? Why didn't I resign myself to a weekend at home? I should be with Ryan after last night. I should be there, with him, working everything out.

  But wouldn't you rather be anywhere than with Ryan?

  I zip up my backpack and sling it over my shoulders. “Let's keep walking,” I say. “We have another few miles before we turn around.”

  Laurie groans in agony, but she follows me up the next hill. It's hot today—it's always hot in the Santa Monica Mountains—and there is almost no shade on this path, but I am not going to stop. I am not going to stop hiking until I collapse, an exhausted, dehydrated mess.

  “Alyssa, I'm trying to respect that you're in some kind of awful, hung-over mood. But you promised details,” she gasps for air, “and I want my details.”

  “There's nothing to talk about.”

  “You lost your shit at work. I don't care how hot Mr. Hot Divorce Lawyer is, he's a fucking asshole for making you feel like that.”

  “He's not,” I say. “And I didn't lose my shit. I just got caught up in the scene.”

  “It's the weekend. You don't have to deal with obnoxious showrunner Laurie and her ridiculous demands.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “Come on,” she says. “You can talk to me.”

  “It was my fault,” I say.

  “Tell me what's happening.”

  “Laurie!”

  “Tell me, tell me, tell me,” she squeals. “Please, I'm so tired of thinking about Model Citizen. I think about it on the way home. I think about it when I eat dinner—which is usually at work by the way. I think about it when I try to fall asleep. I can't sleep because I drink coffee non-stop. And then, if I finally do fall asleep, I dream about it. I dream about this stupid show.”

  “So I'm the woman of your dreams?” It could not sound less like a playful joke if I tried.

  “I'm not going to stop asking what happened. Not unless your mood does a 180 and I actually believe you're okay.”

  “I don't want to talk about it.”

  “Okay, don't tell friend Laurie, but obnoxious showrunner Laurie is concerned. I don't want to make any accusations, Alyssa, but I need you in a good mental space. I can't spare you for a few days. Do you understand me?”

  “I'm fine,” I say.

  “Because I totally respect that you're dealing with shit. Life is hard and there's a lot of shit to deal with, but I need you on set, at your call time, every single day for the next three months.”

  “I know,” I say. “Production waits for no one.”

  She stops at the top of a hill, looking at the next, even higher hill some 200 feet ahead of us. Laurie shakes her head, but after she catches her breath, she keeps walking.

  “I do care,” she says, “beyond my need to have a functional lead actor.”

  “I know.”

  “So what did Mr. Hot Asshole Lawyer do?”

  “I'm the asshole, and he ended it,” I say.

  “What person in their right mind would end things with you?”

  “In his right mind,” I correct her.

  “Oh, shut up.”

  “Sorry, it's a habit,” I say. We walk up another hill,
and this time I stop and look at the disgustingly beautiful view. We're even higher up and I can see even more of Los Angeles. “It's not his fault. He gave me every chance, but I didn't pick him, and he didn't want to be second choice.”

  “Ouch. Want me to kick his ass?”

  “No. It's my fault,” I say.

  “I know it's none of my business…”

  “That's stopped you before?”

  She laughs. “But would you rather be with this Ryan or Mr. Hot Asshole Lawyer?”

  “He's not an asshole. And it doesn't matter. It's my fate to end up with Ryan.”

  “Romantic?”

  “Something like that,” I say. We turn around a mile later. Laurie stops asking about Luke and Ryan, and I try and stop thinking about them.

  I try and stop thinking about what it means to end up with Ryan.

  ***

  It is about dinner time when Laurie drops me off. It is almost dinner time, and I still haven't eaten lunch. Did I even eat breakfast? Did I deserve it?

  I stand in the lobby of our building, staring at the elevator. Ryan is probably at home. If I'm lucky, he's at the gym. If I'm really lucky, he's at the office. But he can do his work as easily at home. He's probably at home, and he's not going to give me any room after last night.

  Why should he? I'm the cheating bitch and he's the innocent angel. Isn't that how the story goes?

  But, truth be told, I don't care what Ryan thinks any more. I don't care what Ryan wants anymore. He was right. I don't love him the way I love Luke. I don't love him. I barely like him.

  But I'm stuck. I'm not strong enough to leave Ryan, especially not now, not when Luke is tired of my bullshit. I'm not strong enough to survive on my own. I never was. Not really.

  I step into the elevator and hit the button. I walk down the hallway, to Luke's apartment, and I stand outside his door. I can't knock. I'm still with Ryan. I'm not leaving Ryan. I can't leave Ryan. And I can't face Luke like this.

  I press my ear into the door. It is quiet. Is he staying at his house? Is he visiting Samantha? Is he with her right now, finally allowing her to earn her forgiveness, finally giving into all the feelings he used to have for her?

  Is he done with me already?

  His key is still in my purse, buried at the bottom of one of its many flaps. My fingers slide over it, feeling every one of its rusty teeth. He broke up with me. He probably wants his key back. He probably wants me out of his apartment. He broke up with me.

  He probably wants me out of his life.

  I slide the key into the door and unlock it. I look around. It is still barren here, a little messy, but barren. He has the same view as Ryan—the gentle waves of the marina, the sun bleeding red into the sky—and it's as beautiful as the view from the mountain. It's so beautiful it makes me sick.

  What am I doing here, in Luke’s apartment? I need to leave. I need to respect his desire to move on with his fucking life. I need to go back to my life and take care of my shit, whatever that means.

  The sooner you go home, the sooner you're with Ryan. You really think he's going to go easy on you after last night? He'll probably want you to “make it up to him.”

  I check the apartment for signs of Luke. There's a pair of shoes at the door, a heap of clothing on the bedroom floor, a few dishes in the sink. He could have been here an hour ago or three days ago. He could be back in 30 seconds or in three weeks.

  Leave, Alyssa. You need to go clean up your mess. You need to go back to Ryan. You need him, remember? And if you want him to forgive you, you really should think about making it up to him. Is it really so bad?

  No. I'm not going back to the apartment right now. I'm not apologizing again. I'm not offering to make this up to Ryan.

  I walk to the kitchen. Maybe I need something sweet. Something to get my spirits up. I know, I know, I'm not supposed to eat my feelings. What is it my therapist always said—healthy coping mechanisms, write in a journal, express yourself, all that bullshit. I try to tell her it's my job to express myself. It is now, at least. Does she really think expressing myself as this other character does anything to push aside my feelings for Luke?

  But I can't think about that right now. I can't think about that ever.

  I pull open the freezer. It's depressingly desolate—a few TV dinners and bags of frozen broccoli—but there is one gold mine. A pint of drugstore ice cream.

  I'm 26. I'm a grown ass woman. I should be able to handle eating one serving of ice cream without falling apart.

  But you can't, can you? You can't handle anything without Ryan. You can't even tie your own shoelaces, can you?

  I pull the carton from the freezer and look for a bowl. I find one, a teal, ceramic thing from Target or Ikea, and a shiny silver spoon.

  Come on, Alyssa, stop pretending. You aren't in this for one serving of crap generic ice cream. You're not going to numb yourself with one little serving.

  No, I don't hurt. I don't. I have Ryan. He loves me. I should be happy. Ryan and I are meant to be together. Ryan and I are soul mates. Ryan and I are going to get married and raise a family.

  I should be happy.

  I have to be happy.

  I close my eyes and imagine the feel of the ice cream on my mouth, sweet and creamy and cold. I feel the rush of sugar in my veins, the fullness in my stomach, the utter inability to focus on anything else but the feeling of this food.

  Jesus, don't you have any standards? You used to use the good stuff for this—the premium, $6 a pint shit. As long as you have no self-respect, you might as well get it over with. You'll feel better. It's the only thing that will make you feel better.

  I take my first bite, and the rest of the world fades away. It is cold and creamy and sweet and rich. Chocolate. I take another. Another. Another. Faster, and faster, until I can no longer taste it. I can only feel the ice cream sliding down my throat, filling my stomach, numbing my thoughts. It starts to hit me. Nausea. A rush of sugar in my veins. The impending sense of doom if I don't fix this situation. I finish all three pints. I am ready to burst. I am ready to be done with this.

  I close the bathroom door and take my spot in front of the toilet. It is not easy to will my fingers into my throat, but I push past the coughing and gagging, until I feel my stomach heave. Almost there. The first one is always the hardest. But it gets easier. I hope it gets easier.

  My fingers find the back of my throat, again, and again, until I lurch over the toilet, throwing up melted ice cream. I cough and gag. My hair swings in my face. Fuck. No hair band, but I can't stop now. I have to beat Ryan home.

  I push my fingers into my throat. I vomit. I do it again and again, until I throw up nothing but acid, until I am the emptiest I have ever been. My body floods with relief. If only it were so simple to erase other mistakes. I need water now. I need to gargle and wash the acid from my mouth.

  I go to the sink and rinse my mouth, avoiding my reflection in the mirror. Who is that person staring at me? Whoever she is, she needs to leave, to get out of here. I can't stay here. I made my decisions. I have to go back to Ryan. I have to shower and change and pretend everything is perfect.

  But I don't move.

  I step into the shower and run the water. I don't even take off my clothes. Instead, I sink to my feet, pulling my knees into my chest. My clothes get wet and heavy, sticking to my skin, and I lean my back against the tile.

  It's over. And I lost. And I have nothing left to look forward to except finding a way to fall apart.

  Chapter 33

  The front door opens slowly. I can just hear it over the sound of the shower. Fuck. I'm still here. I should go. I should go, but I can't bring myself to move out of my position.

  Footsteps move a little closer. It must be Luke. Who else could it be? Did I lock the bathroom door? Does it matter? My purse and shoes are in the living room. He knows I'm here.

  The bathroom door opens and Luke steps inside. I hug my knees a little tighter and bury my head between them.
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  “I was hoping you'd at least be naked,” he says. He walks over to me and turns the faucet until the water stops. I don't look up.

  “Come on, Alyssa, that was funny.”

  I shake my head.

  “You want to tell me what you're doing here?” he asks, and I squeeze my legs a little tighter. How long have I been here?

  Luke tries to take my hand, but it's too wet for him to get a grip. He steps into the tub, his jeans soaking up water, and tries again. But, still, I don't help him. I should help him. I should let him pull me to my feet, but that means I have to slink back to Ryan's apartment. That means I'll be out of here and back to my life.

  He sits next to me with the slightest plop. I feel his arms around me, his hands pressing into my back, but still, he can't get a grip. I lean a little closer, resting my head against his chest. I release my vice grip on my legs and slide my arm around his waist. I know I shouldn't do this. But he's here, and all I want is to be here with him.

  Luke doesn't resist me. He allows me to sink deeper into his chest, even sliding his arm around me. We stay like that for a minute, and, slowly, I come out of my daze. I came here without thinking. I binged and purged without thinking.

  I let Luke go without thinking.

  “I suppose this isn't the time to talk you out of your clothes,” he says. “But I'm guessing you don't want to wear those out.”

  He offers his hand again, and, this time, I take it. He steps out of the bathtub, and I follow him. We both leave wet footprints as our soaked clothes drip onto the floor. Without asking or telling me, Luke steps into his bedroom and changes out of his jeans and T-shirt. He sits on his bed, in his boxers, the room dark except for a few highlights on his skin.

  It's dark outside. I must have been here a while.

  “What are you doing here, Alyssa?” he asks.

  “Isn't that obvious?”

  He shakes his head and rummages through his drawers. He throws me a T-shirt. “Here,” he says, “you shouldn't sit around in wet clothing. Though I don't know how you'll explain this to Ryan.”

  Luke tries not to show his hurt, but he says Ryan's name with such vitriol. The pain is there in his big, brown eyes. What else could I expect? It's barely been 24 hours since I was too weak to make up my mind, too pathetic to leave Ryan, too afraid to try to survive on my own.