Chapter 1
I wake up drenched in sweat, my heart pounding in my chest. Did I dream up last night or did Ryan really ask me to marry him?
Did I dream that I said yes and that Ryan whisked me back home? That he was some mix of affectionate and aggressive when he laid me on our bed and stripped me naked, and kissed me—serious kisses, not the usual pecks—until I asked for more? Did I dream about the close thrusts in missionary, my attention fading in and out, my gaze drifting to the ring?
And there it is, on my left hand. It's a big, showy thing, meant to broadcast my “engaged” status to anyone who even glances at me. Meant to broadcast Ryan's status to anyone who sees us together.
There's no way I dreamed up this ring.
I am engaged to Ryan.
I should be excited.
I am excited. Of course I'm excited. Ryan has done a lot for me. He deserves to be my husband.
Still, I try to avoid the ring's reflection as I brush my teeth. It's impossible. The enormous rock catches the light at every angle. It must have cost a fortune. Ryan is doing well, really well, but he didn't need to drop so much money on a piece of jewelry. It's not as if I'll be able to wear it often if I go back to acting. And I don't want to get into fights about why I'm not wearing his expensive ring.
In the kitchen, Ryan fixes our usual breakfasts—an egg white omelet for him, oatmeal and fruit for me. He kisses me, a soft peck on the lips.
“Good morning, Mrs. Knight,” he says with a smile. There's another fight I don't want to have—whether or not I'll take his name.
I fix our coffees—black for him, agave and almond milk in mine. I know, I'm one of those Los Angeles people, but there is no room for sugar or half and half on my recovery diet.
We eat quietly for a few minutes. I read on my Kindle. Ryan works on his laptop. It's our normal routine, but today Ryan is especially annoyed.
“What is this?” he asks, turning the laptop to me. And there it is—his name on Google, and half a dozen celebrity gossip websites running with the story of our engagement. And here I thought everyone forgot about me.
“You proposed at a popular restaurant. What did you think would happen?” I ask.
“It's supposed to be private,” he says. As if I had something to do with our names appearing on celebrity gossip sites. As if he didn't know, going in, that I am enough of a C-list actress to be interesting to people interested only in fame. As if our engagement is somehow less special because people know about it.
“If you wanted it to be private, why didn't you do it here?” I ask.
“I'm not going to ask you to be my wife over take out in the condo.” He sinks into his bad mood, poring over the gossip sites, the expression in his hazel eyes growing more and more irritated.
“I guess I under-estimated how much everyone wants to talk about you,” he adds.
“They'll have forgotten by this weekend.”
“My parents are going to find out we're engaged from some gossip site.”
“Your parents don't follow gossip.”
“Someone is going to call them,” he says.
“What do you want me to do about it?”
“There's nothing you can do.” He slips his suit jacket over his shoulders and packs his briefcase. “In a few years, no one will remember who you are, and we'll never have to deal with this kind of thing.”
Is that supposed to be comforting?
He kisses me on the cheek on his way out the door. I turn over his words.
In a few years, no one will remember who you are.
In a few years, Alyssa Summers, you will not be anything but my wife.
***
I expect my phone to flood with calls, or at least texts, of happy congratulations, but I don't get much. It's still early, and all the actors I know are either sleeping in or too busy to pay attention to gossip websites.
The only person desperate to reach me is Corine, my agent. She calls four times, but I don't pick up. I'm not ready to hear her perky voice and pretend I am nothing but ecstatic about this. I am not ready to make a decision on “official word from Alyssa Summers” vis-à-vis this engagement, or my sad, sordid past dabbling in bulimia—half the news blurbs felt the need to mention that unverified fact.
I am not ready, but it is better than hearing my ring tone over and over again, wondering why I am watching TV instead of talking to another human being.
She calls again. I pick up. “Mazel tov, darling,” she practically screams into the phone. “I have an audition for you.”
My stomach fills with butterflies. It's been so long since I've done any acting. Nearly a year. Just the thought of preparing for an audition—marking up a script, running my lines, losing myself in the scene—makes me cringe with nostalgia. An audition. I try to catch my breath. There's an audition. For me. That means there's a role. For me. If I get it, if I don't fuck it up, I might have a life again.