“What about Ryan?” he asks.
“I can say I'm going to the gym. It will give me an hour.”
“I'll leave a key in your mailbox in the morning.” he replies. “You can come in and stay anytime. You should have somewhere to go if Ryan ever crosses the line.”
Crosses the line into what?
Chapter 16
I wake up in a sweaty panic, once again sure the last few days were a dream. I could never cheat on Ryan. I could never go to another man's apartment to fuck him. And I certainly could not ask him for a key to his apartment, so I can go fuck him anytime.
Like right now.
It's early, but Ryan is already out of bed. It's so quiet here, he must be at the gym. That buys me an hour or so, more if I claim I went for a walk, or if I claim I had a craving for a latte from my favorite coffee spot.
I brush my teeth and get dressed, but I don't bother with breakfast. I text Ryan. “Going to grab a latte and study my script. Be back by lunch.” I used to do this kind of thing all the time. He might believe me.
I take the elevator to the mailbox and find the key in a little envelope marked “Alyssa.” I take the elevator to Luke's apartment, and I slip the key into the door without knocking. My hands are shaky. Why are my hands shaky?
And it is quiet. He isn't here. I should leave. I should respect his privacy. But I'm already here. I'm already dressed. I look around his desk. An iPad. A laptop. A bunch of disorganized papers printed with legal language. His apartment is otherwise clean and bare. I check the bedside drawer. Nothing. Luke's clothes lie in a heap on the floor. He must be at the gym or on a run. When will he be back? It could be thirty seconds or thirty minutes.
Maybe I should leave. Come back later, when I know Ryan won't get suspicious, when I know Luke will be here.
But I might not get this opportunity again.
I look through his drawers. As I suspected, T-shirts and sweaters in one drawer, jeans in a second, boxers in a third. My hands hit something hard. A silver keepsake box. Unlocked. I press my fingers into the cold metal of the box. I shouldn't look in it. It's none of my business. But, then again…
I pry it open and dump it on the bed. A dozen pictures fall out. Pictures of Luke with another woman. Samantha. She is one of those girl-next-door types. Long, brown hair. Perfect figure. Plain features, but very pretty. And she and Luke look so happy. In every picture, they smile and hug each other. Celebration pictures. Vacation pictures. Pictures around the house—Luke's house. And, in the last picture, a ring on her finger and an excited grin on her face. Engaged. They are engaged.
Luke is engaged to Samantha.
Or he was. But if things are really over, why does he have the pictures? Why wouldn't Ryan deny they were together?
I look at the bed. There are notes. Handwritten notes. They must be love notes. I don't want to know what some other woman said to Luke. She was his, and he was hers. I am not Luke's. I am Ryan's. That's how it has to go.
But my hands have a mind of their own. I unwrap the note and scan as quickly as I can. Love, passion, desire, blah, blah, blah. Did she leave him? Does he still hold a candle for her? Does he still daydream about her? Is he just filling some void with me, using me to quell his loneliness?
Oh, like you're any better.
I read another letter. It's the same thing. Talk about their life together. I want to hate this woman who has Luke's heart, but she's a damn good writer for someone so mushy in love.
The last note is different—a copy of a handwritten letter.
“Luke, I want you to know this doesn't mean I don't love you. This isn't your fault. But I can't stay with you. I can't be your wife. This is too hard, and I'm not strong enough to get through it. It hurts too much. I hope you understand. I hope you can forgive me for my cowardice. Love, Samantha.”
Luke loved a woman and she left him. She left him. It happens to everyone. It doesn't mean he can't love me. It doesn't mean he's still in love with her. So, he kept old pictures. So, he kept old letters. Who wouldn't? Why am I crying? It's going to be okay. Luke loved and lost. It happens to everyone.
Then why does this hurt so much?
Go back to your room, Alyssa. Wait for Ryan. Ryan has never loved anyone but you. He is yours. You are his. Just like Samantha. She is Luke's. He is hers. Not yours. Never yours.
My hands are so shaky I can barely return the letters and photos to their pouch. I mean to walk the two flights back to my room, but I find myself in the parking lot, a sweaty, tired mess. I find myself in the car, the engine firing, the rubber burning as I rush out of the parking lot. I find myself in the grocery store across the street, no memory of parking or getting out of the car. I find myself in the checkout line, my arms filled with junk food. A bag of fun-sized candy bars. Two pints of premium ice cream. No. Put back the candy bars. Just the ice cream. And not two pints. Three. It goes down easy and comes up easier.
Sad girl. Are you really this weak without Ryan to watch over you?
Ryan won't know. Not if I'm fast. I buy the ice cream with a wad of crumpled bills. I probably overpaid, but I don't care enough to wait for the change. I rush back to the car, the parking lot, the apartment, the bathroom.
Okay, Alyssa, give in. This is what you wanted all along. Give in and crumble and let Ryan put the pieces together.