I find my most over-sized pair of sunglasses and slip into my flip-flops. It's a nice day outside. And I'm not that hung over. I can handle the flood of light outside. I can handle a walk around the marina.
I slip my essentials into my purse—phone, keys, wallet, water bottle, Kindle. It's early. I don't have to be back in this room, in my sluttiest cocktail dress, for another five hours. The fresh air might help me think of a way to convince Ryan I can do this.
If Ryan says no, I'm going to have to figure out how to spend all the hours between when he leaves in the morning and when he gets home well after dinner. Practicing monologues and powering through books isn't going to cut it.
The elevator feels especially slow today. Its shiny silver doors feel especially oppressive. I avoid my reflection in the mirrored ceiling. I don't need the reminder I haven't slept.
A gentle breeze blows across my arms. It's late spring. Every day is like this—sunny, cloudless, warm but not hot. When I first moved to Los Angeles, I fell in love with the weather. Every sunny day was a love letter from the city to me, another sign I was right to get my GED and move the fuck out of Massachusetts. But, after eight months sitting in the condo, staring at the blue skies and sunshine from behind giant glass windows, the beautiful days seem more like a fuck you. Fuck you, Alyssa, you are stuck inside, trapped by your own pathetic inability to cope.
I am lucky. I have a beautiful home. I live in a beautiful place. I have a fiancé who takes care of me. I should be happy. I should make the most of it. I should, at the very least, enjoy a peaceful walk on a quiet day.
But I can't, because Luke is here, again, under that same tree, the same dog-eared paperback in his hands. Pockets of sunshine fall through the leaves, casting a soft glow over his face and body. He looks even more fuckable than he did yesterday. He's not sweaty or flushed today. Not yet.
So, he's all kinds of sexy. That doesn't mean I need to have sex with him. It doesn't mean I need to imagine having sex with him. I am a fully grown woman. I have some self-control.
“I was hoping I'd run into you,” he says. He was hoping he'd run into me. He was thinking about me. He was…
Get a grip, Alyssa. He's only being nice.
“Aren't you and Ryan supposed to be at work?”
“I'm sure he's at work. Probably at a meeting, getting a client just tipsy enough that he can still legally sign a contract.”
“Ryan doesn't drink,” I say.
“Of course not. He wouldn't want to accidentally have fun.” He offers me his water bottle. I wrap my lips around the mouth of the bottle, slide my tongue around the plastic. Oh, no. I'm getting ideas.
“How did you two ever decide to work together? I've never seen two business partners who respect each other less.”
“I can't speak for Ryan, but he is a great lawyer and a great business man. He doesn't think about anything but work, and he's more than happy to do all of the shitty running a business stuff I hate. And there was the matter of pissing off my father,” he says. “Dad always wanted me to join his firm.”
“Aren't you a little old to rebel against your parents?” I ask.
“I was only 25 at the time,” he says. He slides his book into his pocket and motions for me to help him up. I know he's perfectly capable without my help, but still, I offer my hands, relishing in the feeling of his hands on my wrists.
“How long have you been rebelling against him?” I ask.
“Since high school. Things weren't the same after my mom died.”
“I'm sorry. How did she…”
“Car accident. It was late. They were fighting, again. She was too emotional to drive, but…She wasn't the most cautious person. They had been miserable a while. They hated each other. She should have left him. But… I think she was afraid he'd try to get sole custody just to spite her.”
And everything Luke has said makes a little more sense. His mom was stuck in a miserable marriage, afraid she'd lose her son if she left. No wonder he's a divorce attorney. No wonder he wants to talk me out of marrying Ryan.
“So, what's your traumatic family story?” he asks. I shouldn't tell him. It's none of his business. But it seems like he really cares, and, for some reason, that's enough.
“Dad was never in the picture,” I say. “Just Mom and she was so overworked and stressed. I never wanted to burden her with my problems, so I never asked for help. I kept everything to myself. Ryan was the first person who I could really talk to…”
“I'm sorry,” he says. “I know what it’s like to try to be strong for someone else. It's never easy.”
I shake my head. We shouldn't be sharing these kinds of things like we're close friends. We shouldn't even be talking.
“Are you going to the dinner tonight?” I ask. Please let me change the subject.
“You shouldn't entertain Ryan's cheap tricks,” Luke says. “Honestly, I don't want any client who needs to be convinced by your body. Even if it is an amazing body.”
My heart beats faster. He thinks I have an amazing body. But that doesn't mean he wants it. That doesn't mean he wants me. Not necessarily.