Page 129 of Come to Me
I take a deep breath. "I'm not hearing a lot about how you truly loved me."
"I'm not going to insult your intelligence. I loved you, yes, but our relationship was never about love."
The room is spinning around me, but I'm sure it's because it's so damn early, because I've barely slept. "Would you have been with me if I wasn't beautiful?"
There's a pause. Finally, a question Ryan doesn't have the answer to. I almost forgot how hard he is to rattle.
"No. I did care for you, but I have expectations to live up to."
My stomach drops, but it's not like this is a revelation. Ryan always made it clear I needed to look a certain way, that I needed to play my part.
"Alyssa, you're torturing yourself. I cared about more than your looks."
"Oh, like my career? You were so supportive there."
"I was trying to help you. I pushed too hard, yes, but you must understand why. You must understand how scary it was to watch you destroy yourself."
Help. Like getting me to do everything he wanted. Like putting his career ahead of mine. Like ordering me to stay in the cocoon of our apartment so nothing would hurt me.
Nothing but him.
"I did love you."
"I heard you the first time," I mutter.
I press my hand against the marble counter. It's so cold. It's warm and sticky outside, but the marble is so damn cold.
Ryan sighs.
"Do you really love Luke?" he asks impatiently. "Are you really happy?"
"Yes."
"Then talk to him about whatever it is that's really bothering you."
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Luke
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 notthatunusual. 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 calls out. 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."
