Method(17)

He gestures toward the bottle on the counter as I take a sip of the wine.

“It’s Domaine de la Romanée-Conti Grand Cru,” I say, swirling it around, “1990, and it’s also an invitation. I got a call from a man who’s opening a new bistro near the promenade and wants to use me for the pairing. He’s a Michelin star chef. It’s quite an offer.”

This gets his attention.

“You’re going back to work?”

I shrug. “It’s local, so why not?” I worked for years to get my reputation as a sommelier. The longer I stay absent, the less credible I am.

He pauses at the counter before he takes a sip of the wine and nods. “Good.”

“$16,000 a bottle, good?”

His eyes bulge and then narrow. “What asshole sends a $16,000 bottle of wine to a married woman?” He’s a little jealous which I find adorable. Even as one of the highest paid actors in Hollywood, Lucas would never pay that much for anything that isn’t an investment. It’s one of the reasons I love him. For a millionaire, he’s as cheap as they come. “I’m sure that’s not what he paid for it, you don’t just give a bottle like this away.”

Tension fills the silence.

“When do you start?”

He studies me, his expression unreadable. “We have the read through in three weeks.”

“You’re kidding.” He gazes at me, and I swallow hard. “How heavy is this?” Depending on schedule, Lucas usually has at least a month or more to prep. He reads my mind. “I won it by default. Will Hart had to drop out.”

I nod. “I know, I know. Okay. I’m with you. I’ll read it tonight.” He gives me a smile that for the first time in a week reaches his eyes. “Thanks, baby.”

Attempting to stay upbeat, I put a voice to it. “I think it will be good for both of us to be working, but I’ll be here for you for whatever you need.”

I’m not sure either of us believes it.

“Yeah, sure,” he says with a nod. “If that’s what you want.”

He reads the surprise on my face and frowns. “I’m not a fucking Neanderthal, babe. It’s been two years, and it’s been incredible having you with me, but I thought…” He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.”

This time I’m frowning. “You thought what?”

“I thought you quit working so we could have a baby.”

“Wow,” I say, widening my eyes. “Now that’s caveman.”

“Is it?” he says, closing in on me. “Can’t exactly drink daily with a baby coming.” He towers above me at six foot two to my five-five. Looking up, I see the contempt I was looking for when I announced I wanted to go back to work.

“I quit working because I missed my husband. I wanted to be able to travel with you when you were filming. You know that. What is it with having a baby lately? We never even discussed it when I quit, and that’s all you’ve been talking about since Blake died. We’ll get there. What’s the rush?” The idea of a baby with Lucas is a dream, but something about his urgency to have one taints the thought. A baby is not a solution for anything.

“People die,” he speaks so casually it’s terrifying, “that’s the rush. If you died, I’d have a piece of you, and vice versa.”

“I can’t believe you just said that.” I trail him into the living room as he sips on the beer that I thought was water, that he’d retrieved from the fridge.

“Well, it’s true. I don’t want to be left, period, but if you do, I want that piece of you. I want to know that what we have is going to live on, at least through our kid. I don’t want to be left without anything.”

Stunned, I watch him. “Is that what you think? He left you without anything?”

He shakes his head with evident irritation. “This isn’t about Blake.”

I ball my fists. “It sure as hell is. You weren’t talking this way a week ago.”

“And life happened, and that’s how we evolve around it. We see things as they are, and we change things…adapt.”

“Adapting isn’t having a baby!” I’ve lost my patience, and my husband has lost his mind. I pace in front of him as he calmly sits on the couch and narrows his eyes on me.

“What’s your holdup? Even if you think I’m asking because of Blake, the baby isn’t coming overnight, it takes time,” he gestures toward me.

“So, you think there’s a time limit on grief?” I laugh sarcastically. “Are you hearing yourself? Okay, well I damn sure hope you’re over sixteen years with Blake in nine months because anything you say or do can mess our child up for life. And honestly, I’m not sure I want to take on that responsibility yet. I like being able to do and say what I want. Behaviors have to change or there are consequences. You know that firsthand.”

His retort cuts me in two. “Why? Because I came from white trash?”

Covering my mouth, I shake my head, my breaths coming fast. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. That’s not what I meant.”

He shakes his head dismissively. “It’s the truth, Mila.”

“It’s not. That’s not who you are.”

I walk toward him slowly, a plea on my lips. “Please help me,” I ask. “Tell me what you need.”