Fill Me (27 page)

He squeezes my hand, looking into my eyes one last time. "Call me if you need anything."

If I need anything. What a joke. He's everything I need and he's leaving and he's being so damn sweet about it.

But I nod okay, and I turn my back to him. The sky is still dark. The stars are still bright. The waves are still crashing into the beach.

And I'm still empty.

***

Laurie lets herself into the hotel room. She's quiet, almost like she believes I'm still asleep, like I haven't been lying here all night, staring at the waves crashing on the beach.

She moves towards the bed with slow steps. Then she's half a foot away, inspecting what must look like a horrible blob of blankets.

I expect her to poke me, to pull the covers off with a joyful shriek. But there's only a sigh.

"I have coffee," she says.

She sits on the bed, gently unraveling my blanket cocoon. I roll over and look at her. She shakes her head--I'm sure I look awful--but quickly gets in next to me, wrapping her arms around me.

"What a dick, huh?" she says.

A laugh--the tiniest damn laugh in the world--catches in my throat. It's a good sign at least, that maybe, one day a million years from now, I'll manage something close to happiness again.

"I mean, what kind of asshole calls you at six and begs you to fly, first class, on his dime, to spend half a week in Hawaii with your best friend?"

"It's worse that he's being considerate," I say. "He should have slapped me and told me he never wanted to see me again."

Laurie nods and squeezes me again. "I'll hire someone to kill him."

"He deserves it."

"No, what he deserves is slow, painful torture. How could he invite you to god damn paradise, then break up with you?"

I laugh again, but it's heavy in my chest. "Can we drink coffee and not talk about Luke all day?"

She nods. "Whatever you want."

***

Laurie coddles me the entire trip. She sits with me at little cafés, trying hard not to roll her eyes when I order my thirteenth cup of coffee.

We don't do any amazing Hawaii things. There's no scuba diving, no happy hour cruises, no romantic dinners under the stars.

We eat, we drink, we talk about anything except Luke. Absolutely anything except Luke.

But the weight of it grows in my chest, refusing to be pushed away.

On the last night here, I pack alone. There isn't much that matters here. Clothes. Only clothes. I sit on the balcony, staring at the waves, trying not to replay the moment where everything broke into a million little pieces.

It's another warm, humid night and there's something so refreshing about the light breeze. Laurie joins me on the balcony with two forty milliliter bottles of amaretto.

She hands one to me. "We need to toast."

I unscrew the cap. "I'm not in a toasting mood."

"Too bad," she says. Her voice is demanding and eager, as usual. She raises her glass, trying to catch my gaze. "To everything working out."

I groan, but I gladly tilt my head back to suck down the bottle of liquor. Damn, the sweet taste of licorice coats my tongue and throat.

It's the kind of thing Luke would drink.

The heaviness builds in my chest. I blink back a tear.

Laurie offers her hand. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I miss him so much already," I say. I press my fingers into my thighs. This whole thing makes me dizzy. I don't know what he wants, what I want, what the hell I'm going to do here.

"Do you think it's really over?" she asks. She looks at me with concern.

"Maybe," I say. I shake my head to keep from crying. Not anymore. I can't take it. I hold Laurie's gaze. "He's trying to protect me."

"From what--too many great orgasms?"

"You're a pervert," I say. It almost hurts to smile, but I can't help it. I swallow the lump in my throat. "He said something about how he doesn't make me happy."

"Oh." Her voice lowers, like she sees the merit in this horrible idea.

"You really think..." I bite my lip. I can't keep hiding from this. I have to confront it. "Do you really think he's right?"

"There is a lot of conflict between you two." She adjusts her glasses, looking towards the beach. "Damn, this is a baller view."

"You're both wrong," I say. "I've never been as happy as I am with him."

"Did you tell him that?"

I shake my head. Of course not. That's been the whole problem all along.

"Maybe, if you talk to him, if you really tell him how you feel... maybe you'll work it out," she says.

I nod.

"But Alyssa, you're going to have to do a lot better than what you just told me. You're going to have to really open up, to really let him see inside your brain."

I exhale, pushing all the air out of my lungs. "I know," I say. "But I have an idea."

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Luke

The last year or so, the world has been bright, vivid, colorful. Alyssa has been mine, and she's filled me with the purest, sweetest warmth.

Without her, everything is dull and drab.

I can't be selfish. Alyssa deserves to feel what I feel for her. She deserves someone who brightens her life, who fills all her days with color and joy. She deserves to be as in love with someone as I am in love with her.

As promised, Laurie sends me daily updates. It's the same every day. "She's okay." That's it. "She's okay."

The days pass slowly. Usually, at times like these, I'd work until I was too numb to feel anything. After my mother died, after my father died, after every fight with my damn ex, I'd fill every waking moment with whatever semi-productive activity I could find.

But I can't bring myself to put in an extra twenty hours at the office. I love my job. I love helping people in miserable marriages get divorced. But there's so much more to life than working. Every minute I spent with Alyssa, even the ones that were sheer pain, was magic.

And that is what I need in my life--more of the magic. So I make plans to go back to my old schedule, the one I kept when I was convinced I could make things work with Samantha if only I had more time. I arrive at nine every morning and leave at six every night.

The house is lonely without Alyssa, but it's a pain I can bear. I do my best to clean up--to put aside anything I know she'll need immediately. There isn't much, really. She has her clothes, her plays, her coffee maker. The only thing she'll care about is her pour-over coffee maker.

Every Sunday morning she measures her water and coffee carefully so she can make the perfect cup of coffee. I'm sure she does it every morning. But for so long, we weren't spending the mornings together. She had an early call time or she was off and I wanted her to sleep in.

I place the appliance in a paper bag. Some eight or nine months ago, I bought it for her. I wanted her to have this tiny thing that would make her happy.

There's a heaviness in my chest. This is not going to be easy, but it's what I have to do.

Late that night, Alyssa leaves a message. Her voice is soft, tired, like she doesn't have an ounce of energy left. "Hey, Luke. I hope you're doing well. I miss you, but... I won't get into that. I'm going to stop by for my things tomorrow morning. Around ten or so. Let me know if you'll be there." The message ends with a long stretch of silence.

She sounds miserable, defeated.

But this is a necessary step, a necessary moment of pain.

Alyssa is going to move on. She's going to be happier in the end. But that doesn't mean I can't do something to ease her pain right now. That doesn't mean we can't be friends.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Alyssa

My hands are shaking too damn much to pick up any of these notebooks. They're all the same. It doesn't matter if I grab a ninety-nine cent notebook in an awful shade of yellow or if I spring for the fifteen dollar leather-bound journal. Or even if I buy one of those hot pink things with a high heel on the cover.

The notebook isn't what matters.

But picking one of these books makes this plan so real. It's the first step towards opening myself up and spilling my guts on the page. The first step towards showing Luke I'm willing to let him in, showing him how ugly things really get.

I scan the notebooks again. They're a mess, loosely organized by how much they prefer form over function. The cheap, plain, college-ruled things are together. The ridiculously girly things are together. The classy, I'm a damn executive, look at my fancy notebook...

I take a deep breath. It doesn't matter what the notebook looks like. I can't delay this any longer. Not when it's my best chance of convincing Luke we can do this.

There. I pick up a little black notebook with a slick faux leather cover. It's simple enough. Not something that screams
these are all my horribly dramatic thoughts. That's what you wanted, right?

The girl at the register gives me an aren't-you-that-girl kind of look. I pay cash so she can't check the name on my credit card and start some conversation about my career.

I don't have the energy.

"Thank you," I say, and I move quickly to my car.

It's cool outside, as cool as it gets in the evening in L.A., and all my hairs stand on end. That's another distraction. I can't keep making excuses. I have no choice but to get home and fill this damn notebook.

I drive back to Laurie's place. The streets are quiet at this time, and her neighborhood is so pleasantly calm.

She's not home, but still, I lock myself inside the guest room, pull the curtains closed, and curl up on the bed.

The cover of the notebook has a slight softness to it, and it's filled with pages and pages. The label says eighty pages but it seems more like eight hundred. It seems endless.

There's no way I can fill all these pages.

But I have to try.

I scribble my greeting--Dear Luke--then I let my thoughts pour onto the page. Every ugly thing inside my brain. Everything that he'd beg to know, even if it might crush him.

***

I arrive to Luke's early and I let myself in with my key. He's sitting on the couch, in his blue pajama pants and a V-neck, watching
The African Queen.
His mom's favorite movie. The movie he busts out whenever he feels like his life is falling apart.

"You're early," he says.

He smiles. It's not his usual million-dollar grin, but it still lights up his face.

He leads me to the kitchen and points me to a hot pink thermos. "I figured you'd like the color."

There's a matching blue Thermos next to it. Normally he'd mock such obvious gender divides in coffee cups. But I do love hot pink.

He hands me the mug and our hands connect, just for a moment. The spark is enough to make my knees weak. Dammit, this is harder than I thought it would be.

"Thank you," I say. I push the lid open and take a sip without asking for clarification. It's the Kona coffee we were drinking all morning in Hawaii.

But it is damn good coffee.

He brings his eyes to mine. His expression is so bright, so sweet, so sincere. "There's oatmeal in the microwave," he says. "In case you're hungry."

"You want me to eat oatmeal?"

"I want you to have everything you deserve. And if you say you like oatmeal, I believe you."

"You'll be the first," I say.

I dig my fingers into my purse, feeling for the notebook in it. No, I'll call it what it is. It's a diary. A year or so worth of thoughts collected over a single night.

A very, very long night.

Luke holds my gaze. There's something sweet about it, sincere, like maybe he's about to say he made a mistake, that he loves me too much to let me go, even if he foolishly believes I'll be happier without him.

"Do you need help with anything?" he asks.

I shake my head. "Just some clothes for the week."

"Oh." It's a happy oh, an
oh, so does that mean you expect to be back here in a week
.

The tension in my chest eases. He still loves me. That might be enough.

"You have a suitcase?" he asks.

I shake my head. A suitcase is too much, too permanent.

"You're usually more prepared." It's sweet, a joke, like he knows I can't bring myself to remove anything from our house.

He grabs a paper bag from the kitchen. He hands it to me. "Is that enough?"

I nod. It's too much, really. I don't want to take anything from here. I don't want to set up shop at Laurie's. "I only want a few clothes."

"Ally, I did mean what I said in Hawaii."

I don't want to ask which thing he meant. It could have been that I'm always welcome here. It could be that he still wants to be my friend. Or it could be that he's intent on staying broken up.

I set the bag on the table and place my coffee next to it. "Hey, Luke..."

He looks at me with every ounce of his attention. "Yes."

"I have something for you."

Any hint of joy drops off his face as he looks at the ring. "I'm not taking it back."

"It's your mom's."

"I don't care. I want you to have it."

I shake my head. "I wasn't talking about the ring, actually."

"Good, because I'm not giving up on that."

I swallow hard. The leather of my purse is smooth and supple against my fingertips, but I have to let go. I have to pry that notebook out and hand it to him. I take a deep breath, trying to ease the knot of tension in my chest. It will be easier once I give this to him. I'll be done.

I reach into the purse, running my fingers against the slick cover of the notebook. There's no more hiding after I give him this.

I suck a deep breath into my lungs. The room is bright, but it's not overpowering.

This might turn out okay.

I pull the notebook from my purse and hand it to him. He presses his fingers into the cover, staring at it like it's the greatest work of American literature.