Fill Me (Rouse Me 3)

CHAPTER SIX

Luke

Alyssa is distant all week. I desperately want to pry her feelings out of her, but nothing good can come of it.

She's going through a lot, turning her life upside down, and I respect her enough to give her space.

Time moves quickly. It's all travel plans and living arrangements. A friend of a friend has a sublet that lines up perfectly with Alyssa's schedule. It's furnished. It's clean. It's in the middle of the quiet, safe financial district.

I almost tell him no--Alyssa would much rather live in some fourth-floor walk-up in the village, a place with "character" and drug-dealer neighbors--but my need to protect her gets the best of me. I'll feel better knowing she's in a building with a doorman and security cameras on every floor.

It's like we're in a dream. We pack. We drive to the airport. We try and fail to sleep on our red-eye flight.

And then we're in a cab, on our way into New York City.

Alyssa rests her head on my shoulder, her hand locked with mine. She's not as used to thriving on a night of awful sleep, and she looks so damn cute tired. She looks at me, groggy and annoyed, and I point to the skyline. Her jaw drops and her eyes go wide. "Jesus Christ," she says.

She moves towards the window, sticking her face against it like a kid on a road trip. "That's... it's... it's so... Oh, my God, Luke. That's fucking New York City."

"It is."

"I'm going to live there for six months." She smiles, her face filling with delight. She's waking up. "I'm going to be a New Yorker."

"You're practically one already."

"Spoken like a true Californian. Do you have any idea how different suburban Massachusetts is from New York City?"

"As different as suburban San Diego and Los Angeles?"

"Not even close."

She looks so happy. Thank God I convinced her.

Her jaw drops. "Jesus. That's really a skyline. Makes downtown L.A. look like a joke."

"Are you going to come back to California complaining about the coffee?"

"Maybe if I was spending six months in Portland or Seattle."

"Then it will be the weather--you'll be sick of sunshine," I say.

"Once again, spoken like a true Californian."

"Please. Southern Californian. It gets cold in San Francisco."

She shakes her head, practically buzzing with excitement. "You're only making my case, honey."

I smile. I adore the term of endearment. "Then you'll complain about the pizza."

"I don't eat pizza," she says.

It rolls off her tongue like it's nothing, and I try to treat it the same way. So what if she doesn't eat pizza? She's been better a long time. She'll be okay in New York.

She has to be okay.

I take her hand. "There are too many things you can learn to hate about L.A."

"Like its utter lack of personality. Or its terrible public transportation. Or maybe it will be all the shallow assholes," she says.