Method(66)

Nikki

Even worse.



“Lucas,” a knock sounds on my trailer door and Nova comes walking in with a package in hand. “Sorry to interrupt, but this just came for you. The courier said it was urgent and I spent twenty minutes arguing with him because he insisted he give it to you directly.”

Nodding, I keep my eyes on the script, flipping the metal through my fingers.

“Need anything?”

I know she’s eyeing my lunch which I haven’t touched.

When I don’t answer, she shows her concern the only way she knows how…by bitching.

“You need to eat, Lucas.”

When I keep my head down, I hear her grumble and the door slams a few seconds later.

Getting back to the script, I spend a few more minutes with the words, letting the architect take over—sort, pull, compose, and draw before laying it all out flat like a blueprint in front of me. Glancing over at the package, I assume is a script, I dismiss it until my vision blurs. Curiosity wins and I finally rip it open. Inside is a script, but for a movie I’ve already made. An envelope falls out with a note scribbled on the front.



It’s all up to you.





G


Ripping it open, I tilt it, so the contents fall in my hand. Thumbing the flash drive, I flip it into my palm, turning it over, the weight of it making my stomach roll.

And then my laptop is open, and the screen rotates briefly when I pull up the media source and click play. And I’m there, in the room, familiar voices sounding. Resuming the flip of the coin I turn the volume up and quicken my fingers, sweat sliding down my back in rivulets. I watch on, second by second, speeding the workings of my knuckles, collecting all the air I can as I’m gutted from one end of me to the other. I can’t look away, I can’t erase what I’ve seen. My chest begins to cave, but only briefly before it expands to the point of exploding.

Thirst like I’ve never known dries my throat, traveling down my insides and chokes me like a suffocating blanket.

It’s when the screen goes black that I see red.

Flames of outrage lick me from all sides. And then I’m ablaze, engulfed in disbelief and fury. Glass shatters as my heart rattles in my chest begging for relief, my mind reeling as I try to rip all thoughts away. Wood splinters around my knuckles as I fuel the fire, dousing myself in kerosene to escape the searing inside.

But there’s no extinguishing this hatred.

There’s no extinguishing this truth.

Rage overtakes me.

And I let it, ripping the life around me apart to match the rubble left inside. I rage until I’m gratified with the wreckage and can’t see through the blur of destruction. I rage until I’m burning so white-hot that I can see nothing else. I rage and let it wreak its havoc because anything feels better than this reality. I rage until I go numb. I rage until I suffocate.





Mila





PRESENT


Lucas: When, when will you talk to me?



Lucas: Tell me where you are.



Lucas: I didn’t do this to hurt you.



Lucas: Please just tell me you’re okay.



I hadn’t texted him since I left for the winery. It was wrong, immature to make him worry like that, but I needed space and he refused to give it. He was a hypocrite that way, and it only fueled my anger.

As time went on, his texts got more aggressive which meant he was drinking.



Lucas: Thanks, wife. Really. You never trusted me, did you?



Lucas: I guess you want to start over now? The problem is WE ARE NOT FUCKING FINISHED. I won’t let you go.



Lucas: Jesus Christ, Mila, don’t do this.



Lucas: I have the right to fucking know where you are!



Mila: I’m home. Don’t come.



Lucas: Home? Our home?



If he’s not there, where is he? I can’t bring myself to ask.



Mila: The cottage



Lucas: I’ll give you space. I swear to God I will, but please don’t ever do that again. I’m begging you.



Aching to fire back with a “how does it feel?” I refrain from a reply. Anger is still winning. That’s my decision today. I know I need to open up the lines of communication but everything I want to say is petty, pointless, and more aggression than progression.

Running a shower, I decide to extend a temporary olive branch.



Mila: I won’t do it again. That’s the only promise I’m making.



Lucas: I love you.



Toweling off, I lick the tears from my lips. Once dressed, I run my sleeve under my nose and crawl into bed, exhausted. My fingers linger over my cell pad briefly before I decide not to respond. Love isn’t the issue. It never was. We’ve had it in abundance, along with a healthy dose of trust. He’d rearranged our universe to revolve around the other, and once we did, we were both sealed in our fate, destined to be the moon and obeying tide. I glowed in his affection while he swept me away with one electrifying wave after another. The week after Lucas and I went to the movies, we came out as a couple at my first Hollywood gala, which just so happened to be a star-studded union party.