“I'm sorry,” I say. “I didn't mean to derail your meeting.”
“I know.” His hand tightens around my wrist as we walk down the hall. The air feels heavy as Ryan slips his key into the door and turns the lock. Fuck. We are almost inside and he looks like he's about to explode.
I try to stay in the hallway. “I'm sorry,” I say, again, and I hate myself for how whiny and pathetic my voice sounds.
You are so weak, Alyssa. How can you apologize to him when he's trying to keep you away from everything you care about? If you're going to fold so easily, you might as well fold now. Go ahead, get on your knees and really make it up to him.
No. Fuck that. I can't give in here, even if he's angry, even if he's upset. I can't live like this forever. I have to do something.
He slams the door behind me. “How could you air our business in public?” he asks.
“It was an accident.”
“You challenged me.”
“Luke challenged you,” I say.
“You agreed with him.”
“Because I want to go back to acting. I want to have a life.”
“I'm not going to watch you spiral out of control again.”
“You didn't watch the first time,” I say.
“But I was the one who picked up the pieces. I was the one who made sure you ate your required meals, and went to weigh-ins, and saw your shrink twice a week. I was the one who kept you from yourself.”
“No. I was the one who pulled myself together. I was the one in therapy. I was the one eating those disgusting meals and pushing aside thoughts of how revolting and fat I felt. I was the one who gave up the only control I had in my life.” I look at the floor. “Don't you want me to be happy?”
“I'd rather you be miserable and alive,” he says.
“Why should I bother trying so hard if I'm going to be trapped in the apartment?”
“Doesn't our life together mean something to you?” he asks, accusation in his voice. I am ungrateful for the life he's given me. I am ungrateful for his love. I am ungrateful for his protection.
“What life together? I sit at home all day. You go to work. You get home. You talk about work. Why don't you go back to work if you adore it so much?” I say.
“We're talking.”
“No, you're talking. And I'm done listening. I'm done hearing that I can't handle my own fucking life.”
“You can't handle it. Every time you fuck up, you call me, and I have to clean up your mess.”
“Fuck you!” I scream.
“Control yourself,” he says, as if I am a puppy who keeps pissing on the carpet.
“Isn't that your job?” I ask.
I storm into the elevator and ride it to the building lobby. I lock myself in the bathroom and cry my makeup off. I can't let Ryan see this. I can't let him know how weak I really am.
Chapter 10
I half expect Ryan to follow me. I half expect him to come downstairs, to apologize, to beg for my forgiveness. But he doesn't. I should know better. He's never once admitted he was wrong. No, whenever I get emotional, he fails at calming me down, and he gets so frustrated by his failure—Ryan Knight could never fail at anything—that he offers me a dose of Ativan.
It was like this the last time we got into a fight. Or, more accurately, I got into a fight and he calmly and coolly explained that I needed to relax. I don't even remember if it was about something stupid or something real? But when I crawled back to him, tail between my legs, he hugged me and told me he loved me and offered me those little white pills with the promise they would make me feel better. After all, he couldn't make me feel better.
He's such a fucking hypocrite. If I tried to shut off my feelings with food or alcohol, he'd accuse me of being unable to control myself.