“Did Ryan apologize?”
“You know him as well as I do,” I say.
“Yes, but I'm not foolish enough to marry him.”
“You should watch what you say. You might accidentally offend someone by insulting her judgment.”
I take a look at the apartment. It's smaller than Ryan's. A one-bedroom probably. There's a long couch, a TV, a desk littered with papers and legal pads. The enormous windows let in the dark blue light of the ocean and the sky.
“See, that's why I like you. Such good grammar, even when you're mad at me.” Luke opens a bottle of tequila and pours two glasses. He cuts a lime into quarters and slides one between his soft lips. Goddammit, I can't drag my eyes away from those lips.
He smiles when he catches my gaze. Smug bastard.
“Can I ask you a personal question?” he asks, his dark eyes burning with intensity. Please let it be Can I fuck you right now? Kiss me. Touch me. Fuck me. Anything.
Jesus, I'm in over my head. Is it even possible I'll leave this apartment without fucking him?
Why would you want to?
It takes all my self-control, but I manage to maintain my composure. “Can I stop you?”
“You'd think I'd be more grateful to have you in my apartment. Especially when that dress does such a great job driving me out of my fucking mind. But I've always been incompetent with women.” His hand grazes mine. “I have to know. You seemed so confident the other night at the bar. You were so smart, and sure of yourself, and full of ideas. You don't seem like someone who would let her boyfriend control her.”
I am suddenly incredibly aware of how easy it would be to slide these straps off my shoulders. I am suddenly interested in nothing else but how Luke's fingertips would feel on my skin. Deep breath. He's waiting for a response. I have to respond.
“That isn't a question,” I say.
“Why do you let Ryan control you?” he asks and looks into my puffy, bloodshot eyes. “Does he really make you happy?”
“I don't need to be happy,” I say.
“What do you need?”
“Don't pretend like you don't know the rest,” I say. “You've read all the little blurbs on the gossip rags.”
I press my nails into my thumb. Do we really need to get into this?
No, you need to take off your clothes and get horizontal. Isn't that why you came here?
“I have a hard time believing you need a controlling asshole for a boyfriend because you had a problem with disordered eating.”
I laugh. A problem with disordered eating. How quaint. Like it was a diet gone too far. A problem with disordered eating. No, let's call it what it was. Textbook bulimia. Binging and purging every other night. Acid reflux so bad I could barely keep anything down. Yellow teeth and nails. Constant bloating. Exhaustion. Shame. The list goes on.
Not that this is any of his business. But, maybe if he understands, he'll stop asking about Ryan, and we'll be able to actually enjoy a conversation.
Conversation, huh? Is that what the kids are calling it these days?
“It's not a problem with disordered eating,” I say. “It's an eating disorder. Bulimia Nervosa. The kind of thing that completely warps your mind. The kind of thing that completely controls you. I would never have gotten better without Ryan. I'd already landed myself in the hospital with severe dehydration three times. I was ready to purge my way into an early grave. If Ryan hadn't stepped in, if he hadn't convinced me that I deserved to be healthy, that he loved me and he was sick of watching me get hurt… I probably wouldn't be here right now.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.
“I've talked about it with enough therapists,” I say.
“I'm not going to nod and ask, 'What does that make you feel?' Unless, you enjoy that kind of thing?”
“No.” I almost crack a smile.
“Geez, Alyssa, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get you riled up. It's just… I like you. I don't want to see you fade away under Ryan's control.”