Method(11)

Lucas: Please, baby, please don’t file. I’m coming over. I’m on my way.



Mila: I won’t be here.



Scrambling to the car, I manage to make it to the end of the driveway when he pulls up in his Land Rover, the large SUV blocking my escape. I lock my doors and keep my window cracked while continually shaking my head as he approaches my window. Keeping my eyes fixed on the steering wheel, unease snakes around me while he lingers at my door. It’s fear that tightens in my chest, and he reads my posture easily.

“Mila, I would never hurt you.”

“Now who’s the liar?”

“Please talk to me.”

“Don’t do this, Lucas, I’m not ready to talk. I’m too angry.”

“Just tell me what to say.”

I turn accusing eyes in his direction. “Don’t have a script for this? How unfortunate.”

Devastation twists his features. He’s wrecked, his eyes red-rimmed and beneath lay dark circles. He looks just as tormented as I feel, his jaw covered in stubble, his clothes wrinkled, hair disheveled. Even in this state, he’s beautiful, hauntingly so. He lays his hands on the glass, and I jerk my chin. “I swear to God, Lucas, if you don’t let me out right now, I’ll be done. We will be done.” I crumble in my seat begging for a reprieve from the hurt his proximity causes, but it’s not my wedge to remove, and it’s his debris I can’t see through.

“This isn’t healthy. Can’t you see what you’re doing to me!?” Gentle eyes rove over me before they helplessly flash back up to meet mine.

“Dame,” he murmurs apologetically, studying my face, a face ravaged with the same hurt, and the added bonus of betrayal. Recognition crosses his features as he realizes the true extent of the damage he’s done. There’s no way in. Not now, not today, anyway. Taking a step back, he covers his mouth with his palm before pulling it away. “Please, please, just talk to me.”

“I can’t,” I say, “Please, just leave me alone.”

Seconds tick by and I sense his probing gaze on me as I furiously wipe at my tears. Lifting my chin, I toss a glare his way. “I hate you for what you’ve done to us,” He flinches as if I’ve just struck him. “I hate you for what you did,” I declare vehemently. “You can’t take it back. You made a fool out of me.”

His eyes water as he palms his forehead in frustration. “That’s not what it was about.”

“No?” I tilt my head. “Well, that’s all I can see, feel, taste, and it’s bitter. It’s not going anywhere. You need to give me space.”

“Okay, just, please…don’t do anything. Don’t…” He can’t even say the words and we both break at the thought, our faces collectively crumbling. He hangs his head for an excruciating heartbeat, then looks over at me with remorse. “I’ll do anything.”

“You should have done anything then. But I wasn’t important enough, even after all we’ve built you couldn’t trust me.” Wiping my nose with my sleeve, burning tears escape as I glare over at him. “I’ve never made you feel that way. I would never hurt you that way…God, Lucas…just leave.”

“I’m drowning without you.” His voice rips, jagged and cutting, penetrating my aching chest. But it’s the anger that wins.

“No, you threw yourself in the deep end,” I reply lifelessly, “and you took me with you.”

A shuddered breath leaves him, but I don’t acknowledge the hurt I’m causing. Resentment is navigating my every move and I’m letting it drive.

Reluctant resignation coats his tone. “Okay, okay. Just…please remember, Dame, remember.”

Agonizing heartbeats later, he starts his SUV and leaves, and I do too, determined to put some space between us I know he won’t allow. He’s conceded for now, but it’s only a matter of time before he comes back. In minutes, I’m on the highway, mind racing. He wants forgiveness, but I can’t find it sorting through his actions of the past few months. He wants mercy where he gave none. It’s hypocritical, and it infuriates me. We’ve become the sum of all my fears when going into this relationship and as much as I want to take some blame, anger keeps winning.

But this? I never saw this, I never thought him capable of hurting me to this degree. But it just goes to show what an amazing performer he is. I can’t even tell truth from fiction anymore. I’m not even sure how much of our story was a lie and that’s the thing that angers me most.





My husband is an expert chameleon. He slips into a newly colored skin with such ease, you’re blindsided by the completion of it and are only able to admire his new color briefly before he slips into another.

The first time he showed me one of his colors was the night we met. I’d been hired to steward at a star-studded dinner at a director’s house. It was a dinner & movie tribute to Francis Ford Coppola, and I’d been hired to pair his wines with the dishes served. Earlier that week I’d toured the legendary director’s winery, and by the time I left Geyserville, I had a vast knowledge of his selection. There would be a screening of his film Apocalypse Now in a large courtyard adjacent to the dining room after a six-course dinner.

Despite my mother’s best attempts to keep me away from the business, it was only a matter of time before my line of work intermixed with the industry. No average, blue-collar Joe can afford to throw these types of parties. Sommeliers weren’t in high demand, and I anxiously took almost every job offered.