Stir Me (6 page)

"Are you sure you don't want to talk about the premiere?" I ask.

"Not right now," she says. "I'm exhausted. I need five iced coffees before I can ever consider discussing it."

"You might feel better."

"I'll feel better when you're home."

She says it like she's done with this conversation, like there is nothing else I can say to sway her to open up.

***

I spend the day poring over work and spend the night racking my brain for ways to make this up to Alyssa. It has to be something big. Something besides making her come every time I see her. Besides spending the day wrapped up in each other.

Something better than flowers, candy, or stuffed animals. She'd recede into herself and lock me out if I even dreamed of buying her candy, and she'd toss a stuffed animal the minute I turned my back. Hell, the only two things she wants are coffee and books for her Kindle.

I push the idea to the back of my mind. It's five minutes to showtime, and I want to soak in every second she's on screen. I'm so proud of her. She's accomplished so much and she's so fucking humble about it.

And the show starts, and I think I could scream. She's amazing. I knew she'd be amazing--she was amazing in all sorts of tiny films, and even in the terrible teen soap she was on for years--but she never got the chance to be so fucking hilarious. She's a force of nature. She's selfish, and rude, and completely awful, but lovable all the same. She's never been more on fire, more bright, more brilliant.

This brilliant, talented woman wants me.

I'm the luckiest guy in the fucking world.

CHAPTER SIX

Room 203.

The texts jolts me out of my daze. It's still early, barely eight a.m., but I'm sharp and alert. Samantha is ready to see me.

I rush to the hospital. It's quiet here. The air is stale. There's something horribly uncomfortable about it, but I push it to the back of my mind. Samantha's room is around a corner and down a hallway. I knock on the door and enter.

She's sitting there on the hospital bed, a cardigan over her paper gown. Her features look hard and tired. Her brown eyes seem dull. Her long, brown hair is in a messy ponytail. Even her glasses seem old and faded.

"Hey," I say.

She looks at me like I'm an idiot. "I was expecting something more dramatic."

"I'd say maybe next time, but I'm hoping there isn't a next time."

She shifts in her hospital bed. Looks at the curtain next to her. "Yeah."

"What happened?"

She rolls her eyes again like I'm an idiot. "According to my medical records, I accidentally overdosed on my prescription. I drank too much wine and forgot I'd taken a dose. Twice."

"Your dad think that one up?"

She nods. Her eyes pass over me like she's studying me. "Sit down. You're making me uncomfortable."

I sit in one of the ugly green chairs. "Does this really make you comfortable?"

She sighs and folds her arms. Her voice is rough and irritated. "You must feel so embarrassed in a shit hospital gown, no makeup, no access to even a hairbrush. And then your ex hauls ass to come and rescue you. Very embarrassing for you."

I clench my fists. Why does she always try to chase me away before she begs me to stay?

"I'm here because I want to be here," I say.

"I look like shit."

She isn't her usual polished self, but she looks fine. Samantha was never a knockout, but that never mattered.

She folds her arms. "You didn't deny it. It must be true."

"Don't be so vain."

"Said the guy dating the hot actress."

"She has other traits."

"Like?"

"Great tits."

"I bet they're fake."

"No, they're definitely real," I say. Real and amazing.

Samantha shakes her head. It seems playful, but I can't always tell with her.

"Have you ever felt fake ones?" She raises her eyebrows and she almost smiles.

"I'm from San Diego."

She rolls her eyes. Again. "Well, I'm glad you're dating someone with integrity."

There's a lightness in my body. I know this isn't the time to extol Alyssa's virtues, but she
is
a person with integrity. And she's so much more. "She's amazing."

"Amazingly hot?"

I shake my head. "She's thoughtful. She's sweet. She's smart as all hell. Reads the most English grad student stuff. And she's so passionate about what she does. You know how that gets me."

Samantha folds her arms. "I get it, Luke. She's hot and smart and puts up with shit like you being here. What more could you expect?"

"I don't care that she's hot."

"Uh-huh."

"Don't get me wrong. She's amazingly hot. But I'd be with her even if she was a hideous beast."

"That's what guys always say when they're dating hot women."

"It's not about how she looks. It's about... do you really want me to get into why I'm madly in love with my girlfriend?"

"I'll give you one guess." She almost cracks a smile. The mood is finally starting to lighten a little, and the room feels a little brighter and more colorful. She looks down at her blanket, entirely focused on pulling lint off it. "I thought you'd leave after yesterday."

"You know it's harder than that to get rid of me."

She takes a moment to compose herself and looks straight at me. "You shouldn't be here. I don't want to take you away from your life."

"I want to be here."

"Why?" Her voice is low, like she really doesn't know.

"You're my best friend. This is what friends do." I scoot my chair closer to her.

She cringes. "Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"My dad is going to flip if he sees you around."

"You're almost thirty--"

"Thanks for the reminder. That really helps my mood."

"Okay," I say. "Tell me what you want me to do, and I'll do it. I'll visit at strange hours, or I'll meet you at some lame organic restaurant, or I'll climb up your trellis like Joey Potter."

"Who?"

"
Dawson's Creek
."

She stares at me like I'm speaking a foreign language. I always forget how little Samantha knows of pop culture.

"Use English, please," she says.

"Okay. Dawson lives on the creek in Capeside and Joey is his best friend. She's from the wrong side of the tracks, but she's a great student. Very smart and into art and literature. He's more lowbrow and painfully earnest. He lives and dies for Spielberg."

"One more word about that stupid teen soap and I will slap you," she says.

"If that's how you want to be." I throw my arms up in mock outrage. "I'm here if you need me."

She nods and pulls her cardigan tighter.

I bring my gaze back to hers. "Are you going to talk about this with a professional?"

Her eyes stay on the window. "That's not any of your business. If you want to stay and keep me company, I'd be glad to beat you at rummy, but I'm not talking about it."

"You only have to answer one question."

She looks at the window. It's flooded with light, but the curtains make the whole room dim and dull. "I'll consider it."

"Was there anything I could have done?"

Her eyes go cold. "Jesus, Luke. Not everything is about you."

She shakes her head. She's right. I know it's not about me, but still... I could have done more. I could have helped more.

She brings her gaze back to my eyes. Her face is completely unreadable, but I know she's hurting. I know there are things she can't bring herself to say.

She folds her arms. "No go buy a pack of cards at the gift shop. We have enough time for a few games."

"Next time, I'll smuggle in a bottle of Cabernet."

She smiles. Finally, a full smile. It's possible this will work out okay.

***

I spend the rest of the day glued to my laptop. I'm buried in work, but my mind keeps drifting back to Alyssa.

I still need to find some way to make this up to her. A small gesture at the very least. She deserves more. Hell, she deserves everything the world has to offer, but my options are limited.

It has to be something she'd really enjoy.

Something just for her.

So basically, tequila or coffee.

I'm not sending her a drink typically reserved for drowning sorrows.

But the coffee... She's mentioned Laurie's shitty coffee maker before. There's this horribly futuristic contraption she wants. It's Japanese and it's supposed to make the world's most amazing coffee.

And she's always going on about what shitty coffee Laurie buys--awful generic stuff from the grocery store. God, Alyssa is adorable during these rants.
Why would she do that to herself? It's like eating drugstore chocolate. I assume. Or like... like going out for fast food when she could eat at a five-star restaurant. That stuff is shit--the bottom of the barrel. Like the tea dust you're always going on about. You know, the shitty bags with no flavor. That's what this is, and she buys it ground. She doesn't even have a coffee grinder. I'm not saying she needs to spend twenty dollars a pound on beans, but for the love of God, she could do better. She only shops at Whole Foods. They have good shit there!

She gets the most satisfied look on her face when she takes her first sip of coffee. There's only one other time where I've seen her that satisfied.

I pour over the options online. Then I see the perfect coffee maker for her. It's hot pink.

But I can't give her this if she's only got crappy store brand coffee. And it's unlikely Alyssa will allow herself the pleasure of buying beans she actually enjoys. What was that brand she liked? Something from Portland or Seattle or some place that actually has trees.

Stumptown.

I buy her a bag of beans, the glorious hot pink pour-over contraption, and a grinder, and I send it overnight.

But it's not enough. I need to tell her all this, to do more to remind her how much she means to me.

My fingers hover over the keyboard. She won't appreciate anything sappy or cheesy. It has to be real. She has to feel it.

I compose an email.

Ally,

God, Ally, I'm sorry I wasn't there for your premiere. You were so great, and I promise I'll do whatever I can to make it up to you. Even if it means shelving all serious conversations about where are relationship is going.

I've felt lucky every day, ever since that glorious moment when you told Ryan to go fuck himself with your engagement. Ever since you chose me. But I've never felt luckier than last night.

I still can't believe my luck that you want anything to do with me. I pinch myself when I wake up, because I think I'm dreaming.

I'm sorry I keep trying to rush you. I didn't do things well before either. But, God, I love you so fucking much. I feel it everywhere, all the time, wherever I go. I love you so much, and every single inch between us hurts. I want you to live with me. I want you to be my wife.

But I know I'm getting ahead of myself.

I just want you to know I'm in it for the long haul, Ally.

You're the best thing in my life. I don't even know what my life was before I met you, because I can't imagine it without you. I can't imagine not coming home to see you glued to your Kindle again, pretending not to gasp over the dramatic twist in whatever it is you're reading. I can't imagine not arguing over what to watch on TV. Or not mocking old movies with you. I can't even imagine waking up and drinking all my tea, instead of losing half of it to you. I'd so much rather you have that half of my tea.

I'm sorry I'm here. I promise it has nothing to do with us. I'm still all in.

And I promise that when I get back to Los Angeles, I'll make this up to you in a much more... exciting way.

I'm all yours.

Always.

Love,

Luke

CHAPTER SEVEN

Samantha almost shrieks when I pull out the Cabernet. It's not a bottle. It's a juice box. Well, a wine box.

Her jaw drops. "I thought you were joking."

"I'm not that cruel." I place two water cups--flimsy plastic things--on the table attached to her bed. "When are you getting out of here?"

"Tomorrow."

That doesn't leave much time to make sure she's not going to do this again, but I'll make do.

I pour the wine into the tiny cups. It's such a violent, vibrant shade of crimson that the whole room fills with color.

She brings the cup to her lips and takes a tiny sip.

"Is it acceptable?" I ask.

She smirks. "I'm not in a position to be choosy."

The wine stains her lips the same vibrant shade. Her whole face floods with color.

She takes another sip, a greedy one this time. "Better than I expected from a juice box."

"It's easier to smuggle than a bottle."

"There's nothing in the hospital policy that specifically forbids wine."

I run my fingers over the edge of the cup. "What would your doctor say about it?"

"You mean the doctor who knows what really happened but believed my dad's story because they're golfing buddies?"

I drag the ugly green chair, placing it next to her bed, and I take a seat. "You don't have to stay with your parents."

"I thought it would help," she says. "Get away for a while. There was so much gossip floating around the office, especially when people heard I landed in the hospital. You must remember."

"You were vague about what happened."

She looks at me like I'm an idiot, again. "What am I supposed to say--I was fucking the boss, who, as you guys probably know, is my fiancé's father. And I got so depressed after he died that I swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills?"