Page 17 of Come to Me

"And I don't want you to reject it because of me."

"I'm not." She slides her hands around my neck. "I'm rejecting it because I want a break. I'd rather hang out with you."

"But the Alyssa I know would kill for a chance to play Blanche DuBois."

"Usually." She leans into me, wrapping her arms around me. "But I don't have the same priorities I used to have. I'd be away for six months. That's too long to be without you."

"Ally..."

"You promised."

I shake my head.

Fuck.

"I could come with you. For a while at least. I could visit every weekend."

She shakes her head. "This is what I want."

"Are you sure?"

She nods. "Positive."

Our food arrives. Alyssa promptly changes the subject, but something is still off. She's too desperate to talk about anything else. She even asks about boring legal technicalities.

I try to shake it off. This conversation isn't going to change her mind. And I want to respect her decision. I do.

But my own baggage won't let me.

I can't help the nagging feeling in my gut that I'm holding her back. I'm my asshole father, forcing my mother into this tiny box, refusing her desire to be something besides a wife and mother.

It's bullshit. I'm not forcing Alyssa to do anything.

But I also can't let Alyssa give up what she wants for me.

And I know Alyssa. There's nothing she loves more than tragic literature. She reads Sylvia Plath like it's Pulp Fiction. And, for God's sake, she's obsessed with plays. Despite her undying love for her Kindle, she has an extensive collection of paper plays highlighted and annotated to death.

There must be a way to make her realize she needs to at least consider this.

It means too much to her not to.

I sit down next to Alyssa. "I was just thinking."

"You look cute thinking."

"I've never givenA Streetcar Named Desirea proper read. You must own a copy."

"Don't start."

"But it sounds sexy with the desire and everything."

She rolls her eyes, but there's a tiny smile on her lips. Perfect. She's getting excited.

"There are a lot of sexual themes," she admits.

"Do tell." I wag my eyebrows at her.

"Please. Like your PhD mother didn't explain Brando's performance to you."