Fill Me (Rouse Me 3)

Alyssa isn't in bed. It's early--light enough outside that the sun is just rising--and she's nowhere to be seen.

The light in the bathroom is on. It's probably nothing, but still, I roll out of bed and move towards the closed door.

There's sound in there, a conversation. She's on the phone. In the bathroom.

It's not that unusual. This room is huge and open. The sound travels. She probably doesn't want to wake me.

I press my ear against the door, but I can't quite make out what she's saying, or who she's talking to.

"Are you okay?" I knock on the door.

"Fine," she says. She mumbles something into the phone and opens the door.

Her eyes find mine. There's something in her expression--guilt or concern or embarrassment.

"What was that?" I ask.

"It's not important." She moves out of the bathroom and takes a step towards me. "It's really not."

"Humor me."

Her eyes turn towards the windows. It is gorgeous outside--the purple sky is streaked with yellow light.

Alyssa brings her gaze back to me. "Can we talk about it after I've had some coffee?"

I nod and look at her a little closer. There are dark circles under her eyes and she's pale. I know that look.

"Did you sleep last night?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "Too many time zones. But it's fine. I just need coffee. A lot of coffee."

"You sure you don't want to spend a few hours in bed?"

She nods. "I'd much prefer coffee."

***

We have a slow breakfast. Alyssa drinks cup after cup of coffee, but none of them bring her any closer to explaining what happened this morning.

I know better than to press her by now. Something is wrong, yes, but she'll tell me when she's ready.

I have to respect her boundaries, no matter how much I want to pry this out of her.

So I talk about last night. I talk about work. I talk about the Oscar bait movies that are playing in every theater in Los Angeles.

She's responsive, even though it's obvious she's tired. I suggest we opt out of our original plan for the day--taking a long, difficult hike--to do something that won't exhaust her. But she refuses.

"You haven't slept in twenty-four hours," I say.

"I'm fine," she says. "Great even."

But she certainly doesn't look great. She looks ragged, though it's unclear if her exhaustion is from lack of sleep or from whatever it is she's hiding.

Don't get me wrong. Even tired, Alyssa is gorgeous. There's something so pleasant about looking at her, hearing her, just being near her.

I'm so damn lucky to have her. Even if she is hiding something.

"You're going to pass out from dehydration after all that coffee," I say.