Page 146 of Come to Me
Chapter Thirty-Three
Alyssa
My hands are shaking too damn much to pick up any of these notebooks.
They're all the same. It doesn't matter if I grab a ninety-nine-cent notebook in an awful shade of yellow or if I spring for the fifteen-dollar leather bound journal. Or even if I buy one of those hot pink things with a high heel on the cover.
The notebook isn't what matters.
But picking one of these books makes this plan so real. It's the first step towards opening myself up and spilling my guts on the page. The first step towards showing Luke I'm willing to let him in, showing him how ugly things really get.
I scan the notebooks again. They're a mess, loosely organized by how much they prefer form over function. The cheap, plain, college-ruled things are together. The ridiculously girl things are together. The classy, I'm a damn executive, look at my fancy notebook...
I take a deep breath. It doesn't matter what the notebook looks like. I can't delay this any longer. Not when it's my best chance of convincing Luke we can do this.
There.
I pick up a little, black notebook with a slick faux leather cover. It's simple enough. Not something that screamsthese are all my horribly dramatic thoughts. That's what you wanted, right?
The girl at the register gives me an aren't-you-that-girl kind of look. I pay cash so she can't check the name on my credit card and start some conversation about my career.
I feel a pang of guilt about it, but I just don't have the energy right now.
"Thank you," I murmur before hightailing out of there to my car.
It's cool outside, as cool as it gets in the evening in L.A., and all my hairs stand on end.
Not that the weather matters either. I'm not going to be out in it.
I have to get home and fill this damn notebook.
I drive back to Laurie's place. The streets are quiet at this time, her neighborhood pleasantly calm.
She's not home, but I still lock myself inside the guest room, pull the curtains closed, and curl up on the bed.
The cover of the notebook has a slight softness to it, and it's filled with pages upon pages. The label says 80 pages, but it seems more like 800. It seems endless.
There's no way I can fill all these pages.
But I have to try.
I scribble my greeting--Dear Luke--then I let my thoughts pour onto the page. Every ugly thing inside my brain. Everything that he'd beg to know, even if it might crush him.
I don't censor anything. Don't let myself think about any thought too long before it comes out onto the paper.
And hope it will be enough.
* * *
I arriveto Luke's early and I let myself in with my key.
He's sitting on the couch, in his blue pajama pants and a V-neck, watchingThe African Queen.His mom's favorite movie.
The movie he busts out whenever he feels like his life is falling apart.
"You're early," he says.
He smiles. It's not his usual million-dollar grin, but I appreciate the effort.
