Method(97)

My stomach rolls again as I do my best to inhale the breath I can’t seem to catch. Walking into the living room, I see Lucas is fully absorbed in the home movie the four of us made in Mexico years ago. We’d vacationed together in Baja on a borrowed yacht. It was one of the best trips we’d ever had. Lucas had just wrapped a film, and Blake was still in demand but was on a filming break of his own. The trip had been thrown together in a matter of days. I was filming the movie on one of Blake’s old handhelds and had just caught Amanda as her eyes rolled. You could see the shake of the shot due to my laughter as I recorded our husbands, who were drunk off their asses, busting each other’s balls. Lucas looks on at the movie, rapt with glazed eyes, agony twisting his features.

How could I not see it?

Staring at his profile, I note the cracks in his posture, heavy sorrow etched in his face. He’s watching a life he’ll never get back.

A life he threw away.

A life he ended.

Treading lightly until I’m just a foot away, I softly speak his name. “Blake.”

My suspicions are confirmed when Lucas looks up and over to me as if he’s been answering to that name his whole life. I have to fight myself not to scream out in reaction with the way he so easily responds. Swallowing, I take a step forward, engaging him. “Blake, what did you have to do to get roles like this?”

He shakes his head adamantly, and it’s then that I see it. Shame. Along with profound sadness, it’s written all over him as I approach the couch cautiously. It’s there, the unease I feel, that I’ve felt every time I was in Blake’s presence when he was alive. “Tell me, what did you have to do to get roles like this?”

His silence speaks volumes as his eyes dim of all light, and he reverts his gaze back to the screen.

“You did…favors for them, right? You didn’t want anyone to know, did you?” I say, rounding the couch. “Am I right? Is that why you did it?”

“I don’t answer to you.”

Covering my mouth, I bite my lips as my tears flood. “What did they do to you?”

He leaps from the couch at warp speed, his hands clenched at his sides.

“I don’t answer to you!”

“Fine,” I manage calmly, “If you won’t tell me, then call Amanda and answer to her. She deserves to know.” Ending the stand-off I could never have prepared for, I walk down the hall and into my bedroom. Grabbing my suitcase, I stuff a few things from my bathroom I can’t get on the fly and turn to see him standing at the door with his arms crossed. His face is blank when he surveys my packing. He can’t possibly care that his wife is leaving because I’m not his wife.

“This isn’t smart for the image,” he snaps.

“Because that’s what it’s all about, right?” I shrug as I toss a few sundresses in. “Not my problem.”

“You think this is easy?” It’s the same accusatory tone he’s used for months, and I’m done with it, done catering to it. It’s exhausting being Blake West’s anything. I’m still shaking inside with the unveiling of the truth, but I reply with my own. “Easy, no. But I think you’ve done the perfect job complicating things on your own. You’ve made one selfish decision after another. These are your sins. You created them, and we are all suffering for it.”

“I’m not trying to hurt you!” Lucas is somewhere in there, but it’s too late. I can’t take the deceit, no matter how many clues I missed.

“You’re destroying your best friend and his life. Isn’t it enough you ruined your own?”

“He’s doing this for me, he owes me,” he insists, pressing a finger to his chest.

Closing my suitcase, I look up at him and clear my eyes before zipping it up. I walk over to where he stands. “I’m sorry, but you’re not the one I’m supposed to save.” Pushing past him, I walk down the hall with my bag in hand, and he follows. I turn back just before I reach the door.

“You always hated me,” he snaps. “I saw the way you looked at me.”

“That’s not true.”

“Well, you won, happy?” A sinister grin covers his face, and I sink further into despair. He plays him so well, how could I have missed it?

I was too close. I saw what I wanted to see, my grieving husband playing a madman.

“Am I happy?” I repeat, making my way toward the front door. “No, far from it.”

“Who’s breaking the rules now?” I snap my eyes to his.

Rule Number One: Don’t take the process personally.

Rule Number Two: Go with it and trust.

Rule Number Three: All parts belong to me.

Rule Number Four: Only in grief do we leave the other.

Does the grief that’s seized me count if it’s not literal? What about his, does his grief count? It may not be the exact definition of the rule we made but grief is most definitely the reason we are breaking it.

It’s then with our eyes locked I see the burden of our expectations, and just how miserably we failed each other.

Briefly, I see my husband’s emerging emotions running rampant in his eyes before he schools his features and the menace is back. “He’s been a good husband, hasn’t he?”

“Yes,” I sniff, sucking up the rest of my composure. “The best.”