Fill Me (16 page)

"I'm a lost cause," I say. "You can cut your losses now. Get out before you sink another year into a relationship that isn't what you want."

My lungs are empty and my heart is pounding against my chest. This room is so dark and heavy. The walls are closing in around me.

I have to stop myself or he's going to take me up on my offer. I can barely do this with Luke, but without him...

I'd be even more of a hopeless case.

He takes another deep breath. Another slow exhale. "Is that really what you want?"

I shake my head, wiping another round of tears from my cheeks. "No." My voice is a rough whisper, but it's the only thing I can get past my ragged throat.

"Me either."

I move to the window and press my palm against it. The glass is cold and sleek, but I almost believe I'm touching the night outside.

I almost believe I'm not in a prison of my own design.

"Don't give up on me," I say. It's so weak, so quiet. A pathetic plea when it should be a demand.

"I don't want to," he says. But there's a hesitation to it.

It's not
I won't
. It's
I don't want to
. So he might. He knows he might.

"But," he continues. "I'm not going to be able to do this if you keep locking me out."

Another sob wells up in my throat, but I choke it back. He's asking for something I can't deliver. This won't end well. It will end in flames and tears.

But not yet. Not now. I have to push this aside, somewhere where it won't eat at me again. I was doing okay with talking before. I can do it again.

"I understand," I say. "But I really am tired."

He doesn't want the truth. He'll freak out. He'll run away. It's better to keep this to myself, so at least he'll be around.

"Ally."

"I'll talk to you later, okay?"

He hesitates, another sigh escaping his lips. "I don't want to give up on you."

But if I keep this up, he will.

"Goodnight." I hang up the phone before he has the chance to reply. Before he has the chance to confirm my suspicions that he can't put up with me much longer.

***

A day passes without any word from Luke. We don't text or call or email. I sleep in late and spend forever on the couch nursing yet another cup of coffee. I skip my usual oatmeal. As far as I can tell, everyone is against me eating it anyway. I may as well eat nothing.

My Kindle becomes my enemy instead of my best friend. The once-comfortable breezy chick lit mocks me. I can only read
War and Peace
for so long before I'm convinced life is a bleak shithole, and I can't stomach these sassy quests for satisfaction.

Eventually I go to the gym, shower, and take a silent subway ride to the theater. The only break from my numbness is performing on stage. It's the only place where I can feel things without imploding.

Ellen invites me out for a drink. She asks about Luke and I distract her by changing the subject to sex. I am careful not to over indulge. Two or three drinks max. But it's enough to unlock all the thoughts I'm trying to drown.

Luke isn't here, and it's not just the distance. It's so much more than that.

It's not like him to go cold. It's certainly not like him to punish me for being so damn difficult.

He must be hurt. Of course he's hurt. Most people would be running for the hills in this situation. I should jump for joy that he's only hurt.

The weekend comes and goes, and I start to hear a few peeps from Luke. A "hey" here or an "I miss you" there. We keep things light and easy, no mentions of trust or communication or, God forbid, whether or not I'm eating.

We talk on the phone, but it's about nothing. About TV or work or, God forbid, the weather. He's holding back. It's not like I blame him. He's entitled to space if needs to lick his wounds.

But he won't admit he's upset. He won't admit I'm disappointing him.

One week turns into two. Then three. Then four. I push lunch later and later, but I manage to eat a little bit every day. It's not because I want to, or even because I know I should. It's only because I know how devastated he would be if he found out I wasn't eating.

It shouldn't be like this. I shouldn't be so fucking terrified all the time.

Then he emails me that he's delaying his trip.

Hey Ally,

I'm so sorry, but I have to move this trip. Remember me talking about Mrs. Waters? Well, she won't be talked into settling (even though a judge is going to give her half the alimony her husband is offering. I swear. She's ridiculous). And, ethical obligation, all that bullshit. I can't pawn her off on someone else when it's just me here.

I'm taking most of a month off at the end of your run. I'll spend two weeks with you in New York. Then we can go wherever you want. Somewhere warm and gorgeous where there's a ton to see (but we'll stay in the hotel room anyway).

I love you, Ally. I'm so sorry about this. I promise it has nothing to do with you. I'm not mad at you or punishing you. It's just work butting into my life the way it tends to.

I can't wait to see you. It will be here before you know it.

Love,

Luke

A fucking email. He tells me this in a fucking email. Yes, the email is time-stamped at a very unreasonably late hour. And, sure, I would have hated it if he'd called be at six a.m. (what the hell was he doing up at three?), but it's not like he found out about his client's bullshit sometime after midnight.

He could have called.

Sure, he promises it has nothing to do with me. But he's always promising something.

It's not that far away. It's only an extra month. Only one more month of everything falling apart.

And then it will just be us again, back together again, with absolutely no excuse for why things aren't working the way they should.

With no excuse for why I'm not gung ho about planning some damn wedding.

He tries harder, calling me after my performance to tell me goodnight, offering to come for a day and a half. Talking to me, offering more of himself.

But it's no good.

As soon as he's back here, he'll see things for what they are. He's probably just biding his time so he can break up with me in person.

It's sweet, really, that he'd wait until I finished my show. That he'd wait until I have time to really fall apart.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Luke

Time passes quickly. I'm busy. Alyssa is busy. We barely have room for our usual phone calls.

There's a nagging voice in my brain. Telling me I didn't try hard enough to convince Mrs. Waters, that I could have convinced her to settle if I'd cared more, that, deep down, I wanted to cancel the trip. That I couldn't face Alyssa if there was a chance she'd fallen out of love with me.

But that's ridiculous.

I spend the flight to New York thinking about how I'm going to make this up to her.

I'm starting to doubt step one of my plan, but it's too late to back out now.

It's for the best, no matter what happens.

***

There's a pleasantness to the coldness of New York City in the fall. It seeps in from the gray streets, to the front of every building.

Everywhere I go is either freezing from the cold outside or sweltering from a heater. There's no just right, no place where it's comfortable to sit without a coat.

I check my clock. She's late. It's not like I expected Alyssa's mother to show up early, but she can't show up late. She won't be let into the play.

I pace around the theater's lobby with my hands in my pockets. I'm sure I look crazed. A man in a suit pacing around like he's waiting for an execution. But I have to do something to keep my anger in check.

Alyssa has never had any particularly kind words about her mother, but I can't believe that her mother would care so little about the play. The least she could do is get here on time.

It's twenty minutes until curtain when Barbara arrives. She pushes the door open with a weak grip. She looks like her picture. Mid-forties, short, with her ash brown hair pulled into a loose bun. There's a weariness about her. It's like she's not actually here.

Alyssa has never been shy about pointing out her mother's near alcoholism.

But I'd hope she'd show up sober for this.

She spots me, a hint of recognition on her face. I wave her over and she nods like she finally gets it.

We shake. Her grip is weak. Her attention is somewhere else.

But still, I smile. "I'm Luke, Ms. Summers. We spoke on the phone."

She nods. "It's nice to meet you." She looks me over, just a glance, the kind I'd expect from a mother assessing her daughter's boyfriend for potential.

"Have you heard much about Alyssa's play?"

She shakes her head. "I've never been one for theater." Her gaze turns towards the bar.

"Haven't seen anything since Alyssa was in high school?"

She offers a weak smile. I'll take that as a no. So she couldn't be bothered to care much about Alyssa then either.

Still, I smile. "She's great in it. You're lucky. Your daughter is very talented."

She nods and her eyes turn back to the bar. There's a need to her expression, like she'd kill for a drink.

She seems sober enough. There shouldn't be much harm in having a glass of wine.

I motion to the bar. "Would you care for a drink."

Her eyes light up, but she tries to play it off. "That would be nice."

Of course it would.

I offer to help her out of her coat but she shakes her head. We move to the bar, making small talk about the weather while we wait. She's trying to have a conversation. That counts for something.

Barbara orders a glass of white wine. She watches the bartender pour like she's watching a work of art. Her tongue slides over her lips. Her pupils dilate.

"How was the car service?" I ask.

Her eyes stay on the wine. "It was a long drive, but it was nice."

The bartender hands over our drinks and I pay. I consider warning Barbara that we can't bring our drinks into the theater, but somehow I doubt she's going to have a drop left in her glass come curtain.

Barbara downs half her glass in one sip. She offers another smile, weaker than the last one. "I didn't know Alyssa was seeing someone."

"You two are in touch?"

She shakes her head. "No. It's been a while."

I bite my tongue. "How long has it been?"

She shrugs. "She's a very independent girl."

There isn't a hint of sadness or regret in her voice. She can barely bring herself to care that she isn't in touch with her only daughter.

"I'm sure she made efforts," I say.

"A few years after she moved to L.A., but we got into a fight and she made it clear she didn't want to speak to me anymore."

"What happened?"

Barbara finishes her glass. "That's a family matter. Excuse me." She moves to the bar, waits in line, and orders another glass of wine.

It's ten minutes to curtain now, but I'm still certain she'll finish in time.

When Barbara returns, I offer her my most charming smile. She and Alyssa may not have the greatest relationship, but she must want to reconnect.

"Alyssa told me that you work in real estate."

"Yes."

So this is going to be more difficult than I hoped. "I'd love to hear about it."

There's a tiny hint of life on her face. It may just be the second glass of wine, but I'm staying optimistic.

We slip into a conversation about her job. She works as an office manager for a real estate company. Long hours, lots of weekends, but it pays well enough.

The PA system turns on and a voice directs us to take our seats. I lead Barbara inside. We have a spot in the fourth row, but this is not of interest to Barbara. She sits and plays a game on her phone. Conversation over.

I take a deep breath, but my clenched muscles refuse to relax.

The theater starts to fill, and Barbara reluctantly puts away her phone. I rack my brain for something to encourage her. She did agree to come. She must be proud of Alyssa. There must be something there.

"Your daughter really is amazing," I say.

She shrugs.

Fine, she's shrugging now, but she's not going to manage to keep that up. No one could watch Alyssa perform and come away from it apathetic.

The lights go down, and the play begins. Stanley joins his friend Mitch and calls up to the apartment above.

Barbara is already in another world, leaning back in her chair, staring at her fingernails like they are the most fascinating thing she's ever seen.

It doesn't get any better.

The whole damn play, Barbara can't even muster the energy to fake interest. Even when Alyssa is on stage. Even in the last scene, where Alyssa's character is carted off to a mental institution.

Even during the final bow.

The lights go on and I look to Barbara for some kind of reaction. There's nothing on her face. Not excitement or pride or even a hint of happiness.

Nothing.

I pull out my phone and text Alyssa. "You were great. Meet me at the restaurant across the street in twenty minutes? I know you need to get dressed."

I lead Barbara towards the lounge. She looks at the closed bar longingly. I'm tempted to spill that we're going someplace with alcohol, but I keep it to myself.

***

The door swings open and Alyssa steps into the restaurant. Her face is bright and excited, like she's looking forward to my visit. No, it's not a visit. It's the last of this. The end of this awful separation.

She scans the restaurant. Her eyes meet mine. For that split second, my tense back relaxes and the weight on my chest lifts. She still loves me. She still wants this.

Then her gaze moves over, towards her mother, and the excitement drops off her face.

"What the hell?" She covers her mouth like it will erase her shock. "Mom?"

Barbara stands to greet Alyssa. They stare at each other for a moment. Finally, Alyssa offers her hand and they shake.