Stir Me (11 page)

She sunk into depression.

I knew how miserable she was, but I didn't do anything about it.

Then she swallowed my bottle of sleeping pills.

I left my prescription on the bedside table for weeks, right there, right in her face. It's not like I did it on purpose. It's not like it was any secret I took them.

It's not like I was trying to tempt her. I didn't want her to take the pills.

But I knew it was a possibility. I knew she was miserable. I knew she was desperate. I knew she'd prefer anything to living with the shame of her dirty secret becoming public, the pain of losing the lover who didn't even want her.

Maybe I did want her to take them. Maybe I wanted her to put us both out of our misery.

I still remember the first night I left them there. I had that thought--what if she's thinking of ending things?--but I ignored it. I told myself it was impossible. Samantha wouldn't do that.

A few weeks later, she was in the ER with her stomach being pumped, a suicide note tucked under the bottle.

I'd promised to help her. I'd promised to be her boyfriend again, but I ignored her. I insulted her. I tried so hard to forgive her, to be there for her, to hold her when she cried, but I couldn't. I knew she was crying over that bastard Edward and his stupid fucking death.

She was crying because he didn't love her.

She was crying because he was gone.

I couldn't comfort her.

I couldn't even comfort myself. He was my father. An asshole, but still my father, and I was supposed to be comforting her about it?

If I had been there for her the way she needed me, she never would have slipped into this depression. She would have been sad, sure, but she would have been okay.

If I hadn't left that stupid bottle of sleeping pills by the bed, she wouldn't have gotten the idea to take them.

I failed her then. I can't fail her again.

***

Samantha's parents live in Montecito, the richest city in the Santa Barbara area. Their house is huge, one of those suburban mansions on a hill. It has everything--four bedrooms, a study, a long, formal dining room, a view of the California coastline.

I still know the way there from memory. I've been visiting her a while now.

It's sunset when I arrive, and there's a soft orange glow over the quiet streets. They're too quiet, like there's no life in these houses.

My shoulders tense. I'll always be Samantha's friend, but this is the last weekend of this. It has to be.

I park on the street and walk up the long stone path to the door. Samantha answers quickly. She's dressed like an actress in a movie. Not in pajamas, but in designer loungewear.

"I got takeout," she says.

We move into the dining room. It's a huge, empty room with a sturdy oak table. Once upon a time, I made a joke about having sex on this table.

She didn't find it funny.

I set the wine on the table, a bottle this time, and Samantha shrieks.

She throws her arms around my neck and presses her lips into my cheek. "Oh my God, I love you."

I swallow hard. It's a friendly I love you. That's it.

She brings her eyes to mine. "My parents are trying to convince me to stay here again."

"Will you?"

She shakes her head. "If I do, I'll do it again."

The words fall with a thud. They're so effortless as they pass her lips. It's like she mentioned the weather, or her plans to see a movie this weekend. It's not like she just said she's going to attempt suicide again.

She looks at me. I'm doing an awful job of hiding my expression of horror.

"Don't start," she says. "I'm not comforting you over it."

"You can't say things like that and not expect people to be upset."

"Fine, be upset." She goes to the kitchen and comes back with a wine cork. She shakes her head as if to ignore me, all her attention on the bottle of wine. "Sit down. You're making me uncomfortable."

"I'm making you uncomfortable?"

She pours crimson wine into one of the glasses. "You used to be the one with guts."

"You think it's funny you tried to kill yourself, fine. But I'm not going to keep coming here if you're going to joke about it."

She looks at me like I'm an idiot. Again. Shakes her head, pours another glass of wine, and passes it to me. "You used to be the one with a sense of humor."

I clench my teeth. She wants to play it like this, fine. But I'm not going to keep helping her if she's going to throw it away.

***

I text Alyssa Saturday morning to check in, but she doesn't reply. I try not to make much of it. It's early, and she likes to sleep in.

Samantha and I play cards at the dining room table for hours. She frowns every time I check my phone, but she doesn't point it out. She just taps her hands and waits for me to finish my turn.

The morning turns to afternoon. We order takeout. We trade gossip about our old law school classmates.

But Alyssa still doesn't respond.

It's three now. It's getting well into the afternoon, the time she chose for her food challenge. I text her again.
How is everything.

I turn my phone over and play another round of rummy with Samantha. The damn phone doesn't buzz. No new calls. No messages.

Samantha looks at me with concern. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah." The screen is still empty. "It should be."

I stare at the phone. Alyssa isn't a huge fan of technology. It's possible she has her phone off, that she broke it and can't be bothered to fix it, that she's out and she just forgot it.

But I sent that first text hours ago.

My shoulders tense. I need to be there for her today, at least on the phone.

Samantha's voice cracks. "It doesn't seem okay."

I shake my head. I need to give Alyssa a little more time. "It should be."

She nods, but she keeps one eye on me as she takes her turn. "Alyssa?"

I nod.

"What is happening with Alyssa?"

I pick up my card and stare at it. "Don't worry about it." This card is not what I want. I don't know what to do with it.

Samantha frowns, but she says nothing until I finish my turn. Then she picks up a card and declares her victory.

She wins again. Truth be told, I let her win.

I ignore my phone for the next two rounds. Until it's nearly five. Until this damn phone is burning a hole in my brain.

This isn't like Alyssa.

But I pick up my card. I stare at it the way I always do, with my best poker face.

Samantha stares at me like I'm an idiot. "Just call her."

"It's fine."

"I'd like to get your attention back. Call her."

I nearly jump out of the chair. I press the phone between my palms and I make my way to the empty study. It's a dark room in warm shades of auburn and brown. The kind of room that radiates wealth and prestige.

I dial Alyssa. The phone rings. It rings again. It rings straight to voice mail.

My shoulders tense. This is no good. But I won't jump to conclusions. I try again.

But again, the phone rings straight to voice mail.

I send a text.
Give me a call when you get this. I want to hear your voice.

It's probably okay. It's probably nothing. But, just in case it's not, I call Laurie.

The phone rings straight to voice mail. "You've reached Laurie House. Please leave a message."

Deep breath. "Hey, it's Luke. I can't reach Alyssa. Let me know if you hear from her." I hang up.

It's probably nothing.

It better be nothing.

***

I'm distracted all evening, but I try to give Samantha as much of my attention as I can. She talks about little things--staying with her parents, her wish to return to her job, how sick she is of the only restaurant that delivers to her house.

We order dinner. We drink half a bottle of wine. We watch some show about Lincoln on the history channel. Samantha loves the history channel.

Finally, my phone buzzes. Samantha turns to me, her eyes laser focused on my expression. I nod. This is all going to be fine. And I turn over the phone.

It's a text from Alyssa.
Sorry, I was at a movie. Is everything okay?

I reply.
Just checking on you.

Her response is quick.
I'm fine.

I reply.
Did you do the food challenge?

I'm tired. We can talk when you're home on Sunday.

I clench my jaw. She did promise she'd call if she was overwhelmed. I reply.
Right. But do me a favor?

No favors.

I reply.
Just promise you're okay.

I'm fine. I'll see you Sunday.

There's such a finality to it. I know better than to press her. She's done with this conversation, with any conversation until I'm back in her arms.

My breathing is strained and my back is aching, but I do my best to push it aside. Samantha still needs my help. And I need to repay this debt.

I turn my attention back to Samantha. She's staring at me, as usual, like I'm an idiot.

She nods to the TV. "They're about to get to the good part."

"He's finally executed and the show ends?"

She shakes her head and she holds up her wine glass as if to ask for a refill. "Please."

I nod. Okay. I grab her glass and mine, and push off the floor. It's a short walk to the kitchen. A short walk through this huge, dark, empty house.

There isn't a single speck of dust in the kitchen. There's nothing except a tiny crimson spot next to the bottle of wine. It's going to stain. Her parents are going to yell at the maid.

I wrap my fingers around the glass bottle. Twenty-four more hours and I'll be with Alyssa. Twenty-four more hours.

I return to the living room and offer Samantha her wine. She smiles, licking her lips like she can't wait to be just a little bit more tipsy.

She's sitting on the rug. It's the same crimson rug we always sit on. Once upon a time, I made a joke about having sex on the rug.

She didn't laugh at that one either.

I take a seat on the couch. Samantha frowns. Pats the spot next to her.

But I shake my head.

She pushes herself off the floor and plops next to me. She's close, closer than she should be. She rests her head on my shoulder. Wraps her hand around my arm.

"Sam, don't..."

"Please." It's a high-pitched whine, a desperate plea. She takes a long sip of her wine, her cheeks flushing with color. "Just hold me for a while."

I push her off as gently as I can. "You know I can't."

She sighs, wrapping her fingers around the stem of her glass. "Right. I'm sorry... I shouldn't ask... I forgot about Alyssa for a minute."

"Sam..."

She hugs her chest with her arms, her eyes turned to the floor. "Wouldn't a minute be okay?" It's so desperate, like she'll fall apart if I don't immediately wrap my arms around her.

But it's not happening. "I can't." My voice is harsh. A warning not to ask again.

She shakes her head. "Of course. I'm so sorry. I didn't want to make you uncomfortable." She brings her eyes to mine for a moment. "You're the best thing in my life. Please don't think I have the wrong idea."

I nod. It's possible Samantha did forget. It's possible she really means nothing by her request.

But it's also possible she knows exactly what she's doing.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The sky is dark the entire drive back to Santa Monica. There's an Alyssa-shaped hole in my gut, and I'm desperate to do anything I can to eradicate it. I'm so close to wrapping my arms around her, to feeling her heart beating against my chest.

It's late, too late, when I finally park in the driveway. The house is dim, but there's a low roar from the TV. Alyssa is curled into a ball on the couch. She's hugging a pillow and her eyes are closed. I almost don't want to wake her.

She stirs. Her body unfurls, her arms stretching over her head, her jaw dropping in an adorable yawn. She's wearing my clothes--a T-shirt and boxers. It's such a small, intimate thing, but it feels so right, like this tiny part of our lives is finally properly tangled.

She looks at me with the tiniest smile. She's still tired. It's completely adorable.

"What time is it?" she asks.

"Later than it should be." I drop my bags on the floor and move towards the couch.

She keeps her eyes on me, even as she struggles to keep them open.

She shifts to a seated position. "I have to get up early tomorrow. I have an audition and I haven't rehearsed at all."

"You can pull an all-nighter."

"I might." She runs her fingertips along my arms, tracing from the veins on my wrist. "I missed you, you know?"

"I missed you more."

She brings her eyes to mine. There's such a need in her expression, but she blinks and it's gone. Replaced by something more demanding.

"Do you want to talk about everything?" I sit next to her.

She shakes her head. "You always want to talk." She digs her hands into my hair, and she looks at me with those
fuck me
eyes. "Do you think, this time, we can talk tomorrow?"

"Ally..."

Her eyes connect with mine. There's so much need in her expression. It's a plea for release. Then her eyes are closed and her lips are on mine. She tastes like mint, like her toothpaste.

She pulls back, her eyes connecting with mine. "Please."

She kisses me again. Her lips part and I slide my tongue into her mouth.

My body floods with heat. There is no sense in talking now. Not when we could do something so much better.

Her hands find my back. They dig into me, pressing my shirt against my skin. She's desperate. She needs this much more than she needs a conversation.

She pulls back. Her clear blue eyes connect with mine. "It's okay if you don't want to. I should get to sleep eventually."

But she still shifts her body into mine. She wraps her legs around my hips, her hands still digging into my back.