Fill Me (Rouse Me 3)

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.