That day, three or four months ago, I pressed her to finally leave Ryan. She recoiled. She wasn't ready.
Even though it killed me, I understood. I understand better now, actually. She really believed she'd fall apart if she left him. That she'd spiral back into her mostly recovered bulimia without him around to keep her in line.
It was a punch in the gut, but it was nothing like this.
I am the walking dead. I drag myself out of bed every morning. I stare at the electric kettle in the kitchen, barely able to force myself to find the teaspoon, to scoop Early Grey into the damn plastic tea maker. I stand there as the microwave timer counts down from five minutes, and I stare at the water as it mixes with the tea, becoming a darker and darker shade of brown.
The beep is always a surprise, every damn morning, but it does nothing to jar me out of this. The tea tastes like nothing. No matter how strong I make it--double
, triple, even quadruple strength--it takes like nothing. Everything around me is nothing. The air isn't warm or cold, salty or sweet, dry or humid. It's nothing. The white walls, the beige carpet, the blinding gray morning sky--it's all nothing. And the nothing washes over me until I am sure it will swallow me whole.
Alyssa is gone and it's all my fault.
It takes all the willpower I have not to call her every morning. She wants space. I have to give her space. I still have a chance. It's a tiny piece of hope, a sickening sweetness in my otherwise bitter day.
She wants to be with me. She said she wants to be with me. Just not like this.
I have to show her she always comes first.
I push back another thought--that sting that screams that I have to choose. I can either repay my debt to Samantha, to help her out of the mess I put her in and lose Alyssa, or I can abandon her and choose Alyssa.
There has to be another way.
Work is agony. I am lost in my meetings. Some other version of me takes over. He is the charming, flirty man all my clients love. He woos them, compliments them, promises them everything they deserve. And then I am back to my zombie self, moving through prenuptial agreements and settlements as if I am simply entering data.
And I am. It's all the same. It's all dull and gray and ugly. It's all nothing.
Even Ryan can't rattle me. He must not know Alyssa is taking space again, because he doesn't gloat or brag. He just offers once again to buy out my half of the business.
But he's living in a fantasy. Ryan is the reason why I feel like this. If Ryan hadn't fucked with Alyssa's head so thoroughly...
He's not getting anything from me. Not anything but a punch in the face.
After work, I run. I run and I run and I run some more, until my heart is pounding and my legs are shaking. Until the sky is dark, and I have no idea where I am. Then I turn around, and I run back to that stupid condo, and I stand in the kitchen, not paying much attention as I somehow conjure up a dinner.
The nights are the worst. I am a zombie again, parked on the couch for hours. I try watching every TV show I've ever enjoyed, but none of them stir me.
I have a drink, or two, or three, but it only makes me sink deeper into this ugly, gray feeling.
I have to give her space, no matter how much it hurts.
I have to give her space, because she loves me, and she knows how much I love her, and she's going to come back. I know she is.
So, instead of calling Alyssa and begging her to hear me out--that won't work, not like this--I call Laurie.
She answers with a triumphant, "Uh-huh."
I can see her smirking, her eyes glowing behind her bright red glasses.
"Well, if it isn't Mr. Hot Lawyer," she says.
I try to fight a sarcastic response, but the sarcasm is winning. "Those are my only two distinguishing characteristics."
"No, there's three. Hot. Lawyer. And asshole who upsets Alyssa..."
"How is she doing?" I ask.
"She was upset for a few days--you know, hiding out in her room and reading, drinking fifty iced lattes in a row."