Method(10)

Hours have passed since I left Lucas to his script. I’ve spent several of those hours trying to lose myself in a novel I can’t get into on our wooden deck, just a stone’s throw away from the surf. When he’s home, we end our days on our sundeck sharing a glass of wine. It’s a ritual to keep us connected. As I sit in wait, I feel like I’m expecting a verdict of sorts when his voice rouses me from my thoughts. “What you up to, Dame?”

I pour a second glass of wine and set it on the mosaic-tiled table next to his chair. “You know, the same old philanthropy. Supporting local wineries.”

He chuckles, taking the offered wine. “Good?”

“Yeah, but you won’t like it.”

“I love wine.” We share a smile as he takes a sip and I watch his reaction, which is typical. We drink in the setting sun peeking through a small patch of cotton clouds in silence, admiring the day’s end.

I take another sip, letting the grapes ferment on my tongue before I swallow it down and break the silence. “It’s good, isn’t it?”

We both know I’m not asking about the wine.

“It’s fucking incredible,” he says, taking his seat in the chair next to mine. “I’m almost certain he’s shooting in sequence.”

Wes is one of a few Hollywood directors that shoots the scenes in order from beginning to end. It’s the perfect setup for a Method actor like my husband because it helps his evolvement. Inside, I’m screaming, but I don’t let on I’m terrified of what he may evolve into. The argument will be futile anyway. He’s only taken on a few roles that require this much dedication and those had been taxing on our relationship. But we’d made it through, and the results were phenomenal, earning him his first Golden Globe, which Mother made sure to be present for as a former press member.

The hypocrite.

Still, it means I’ll lose him for the time it takes to prep and shoot, and he’s quiet because he can’t assure me of anything. I signed up for it. I decide to hold any objections until I’ve read the script myself, but I already know it’s too late.

“So, I can read it?” I say, standing, all too eager to see what we’re up against.

“Not yet,” he says, pulling me to sit between his legs on the comfortable deck chair. I lie back with my head resting on his collarbone. We sink into each other, relaxing as the tide pulls sand away from the shore. To our right, the Santa Monica pier bursts to life in violet and blue in contrast with the darkening sky.

“Tell me,” I whisper.

“This is the one. It’s what I’ve been waiting for and feels original. I mean it’s a bit cliché in the rags to riches aspect, but you know I can identify with that and use it. But there’s a lot I can’t. You’ll see when you read.”

I nod. “How bad was he?”

His momentary silence speaks volumes. “Pretty fucking bad. Unpredictable, volatile, he had an insatiable taste for blood and vengeance. He was a closet heroin addict and a womanizer.”

Sarcasm coats my voice. “Sounds awesome, honey.”

We share a laugh as my chest sinks. Lucas takes the glass from my hand and sets it on the table before wrapping soothing arms around me. “It’s the role of a lifetime,” he murmurs as his hands cover me in a gentle caress. “The Scarface of the twenty-first century. I’ve got to go all in. And with the timeframe and the amount of prep I have to do, it’s going to be grueling. I’ll have to isolate a lot, and I don’t want you to take it personally.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask, knowing the answer.

“If the meeting with Wes goes like I think it will, it’s going to go fast.”

“Okay.” He tenses behind me, and I know he heard my hesitation.

“Please, Mila, let me have this. I need you with me. You don’t pass on something like this. And I managed to fall in second place, so I have a lot to prove.” He moves my hair out of the way and presses a soft kiss against my neck while dread settles in my belly. “I’ll make this up to you.”

I squeeze his thigh. “I know.”





Mila





PRESENT


Lucas: You called a fucking lawyer? We have to talk, Mila. Now. Please talk to me.



Mila: I can’t trust you anymore. What am I supposed to do with that? You threw six years of marriage in the trash. Hope it was worth it.



Lucas: It wasn’t me who hurt you.



Mila: I don’t accept that. I refuse to accept that. I hate you for saying it.



Lucas: Tell me what you want me to say. Tell me what to do.



Mila: I can’t look at you. I can’t trust you. I don’t even know who I’m talking to anymore.



Lucas: It’s me. I’m here, Dame.



Mila: I’m sorry, I don’t believe you. Not anymore.



Setting my phone down, I give myself time to reason with my anger and fail. The longer I’m away from him, the more I remember, the madder I become. I’m too upset, too furious to be a reasonable adult. I’m bloodthirsty, and no good can come of that. I need space to sort through the wreckage of the past month. I called a lawyer yesterday morning out of anger, and I have no idea how Lucas got wind of it. It was just a quick phone consult and wasn’t anything I was fully considering. Hurt can cause anger to make decisions, that’s the one I made before battling a thousand other emotions. I can’t face this yet, and I deserve the space to figure it out. But when I retrieve my phone and read his text, I panic.