Unscripted

by Swallow, Lisa

  The physical distance thanks to his leaving the States helped, as I knew Miles couldn’t “bump into me,” and my new role took focus away from my past life with him. I’d say out of sight, out of mind but that’s not 100% true.

  I had heard Miles is back in LA, and moved down to Santa Monica. I’ve no idea how he affords living there, probably taking some other sucker for a ride.

  This day would always come, but the thought of meeting him sickens me to the core. I don’t want to relive the emotions from that day, and could say no, but I’m no coward, unlike him. Miles can have his moment, say what he likes, but nothing he tells me will bring forgiveness. I’m scared though—how much is buried I haven’t dealt with?

  * * *

  Audrey offers to be around when I talk to him, but I arrange to meet Miles the next day, while she’s working. This annoys her, but I explain I need to meet him one on one and keep the encounter private. How will I react? Will I scream and shout at Miles? Spurned woman hysterics? Not my style, but how do I know what my style is when I meet the man who humiliated me? I haven’t been in such an emotionally challenging situation before.

  Audrey left with a parting question: will I tell Miles I’m married to another man?

  Ha bloody ha.

  Sick nerves, worse than any audition, follow me around all morning, and I divert the jittery energy into slinging the rest of Mile’s possessions into boxes. I’ve already cleared most traces of him and resisted the temptation to leave the boxes in the street. The last thing I needed over the last weeks was reminders of Miles around me, but the hurt and memories remain. Three years with the man I’d convinced myself was my soul mate can’t be forgotten that easily.

  Pictures of our trip to South America last year fill my phone, and I can’t bring myself to delete them. Miles complained if he couldn’t live his dream, then we should travel instead. He pushed for us to submerge ourselves in the bigger world around us; to experience as much as we could while free of major commitment. Before we grew too old and became stuck in responsibility.

  I wish I could cut him out, but even if I edited him from images, I could never edit him from my past. No, I’m the better person here. Fate smiled on me recently, as if to make up for the shit Fate kindly dumped on me earlier this year. Sure, I have a husband to deal with, but at least no relationship. They’re off the agenda. Period.

  * * *

  The Miles who walks into our old home drops his apartment keys on the table, unable to meet my eyes until I speak.

  “Thanks for not just letting yourself in.”

  “I don’t have the right to.” His voice is soft, and wary. He’s skinnier, beard fuller, and hair in a ponytail instead of the man-bun he favoured. At least that removes him a step from the guy I loved, with no danger I’m attracted to him. I hated when he grew a beard; now the hair covers half his face. Ugh. When we travelled to South America together, the same happened, although he shaved the beard on his return. Is the image change permanent now?

  “Correct. You don’t.” I pick his keys up and push them into a kitchen drawer. “Your gear’s in there.”

  Two cardboard boxes by the door contain three years of our relationship. He chews on a nail as I push them toward him with my foot, or attempt to as this one’s bloody heavy. “And don’t stress, everything of yours is there. I haven’t kept anything.”

  Sorting Miles’s possessions from mine and packing them helped with the grieving process. Finally, having the “memory boxes” out of my face should lead to the closure I need.

  Or so I thought. Denial shifts into anger as his presence pulls at the pretence I’ve constructed, that this man and the last three years don’t exist, nothing happened. Why the hell did I agree to let him into the home we shared together for the last two years? Audrey could’ve dealt with this.

  But we need to meet. Finalise.

  “Congratulations on the Angel City part,” he says. “I always knew you’d land something big.”

  “Thanks.”

  Miles squats down to pick up a box. “My mate brought his car, he’s outside. I won’t keep you long.”

  What the fuck? “Don’t you have anything to say to me?” I ask. “You know, about our wedding day.”

  He pauses and stares at the ground. “Sorry.”

  “Two months and ‘sorry’ is the best you have?”

  Miles straightens. “I’m embarrassed about what happened.”

  “You make it sound as if you made a bad speech or were a reckless drunk. You were caught having sex with the best man!”

  “We weren’t having sex, Myf.”

  “Dylan told me what he saw,” I snap.

  “Dylan.” His jaw sets hard. “Ah, yes. Dylan fucking Morgan.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing.” He leaves the box and straightens.

  “No, go on. Are you blaming Dylan for the fact you were with another man instead of outside waiting for your bride? Or annoyed he found you?”

  Tate’s mouth hardens, expression switching to one I increasingly saw in the final weeks of our relationship, when the arguments grew. “Dylan was always there, in the background.” He pauses. “You’re in love with Dylan and always were.”

  My head spins at his sudden accusation. "What the fuck, Miles ?"

  “How do you think I felt about you comparing me to somebody like him? Good-looking, successful, wealthy. Next to Dylan, I’d never be enough for you.”

  “That’s ridiculous. When did I ever say or make you believe that? I told you many times what the deal is with Dylan. Besides, he’s bloody married now and I’m happy for him!”

  “You spent more time worrying about him than you should. Poor billionaire rock star who needed a shoulder to cry on, and it was always yours. If he wanted you, you jumped. Hell, you’d have phone conversations with him in the middle of the night.”

  Three years together without a word, and Miles throws this at me now? “Dylan was in a mess and needed somebody to talk to. He’s my best friend,” I snarl. “Don’t you dare accuse me I feel anything more for him than that. You’ve seen how he behaves. I could never cope with Dylan as a partner, even if I did want more. Dylan’s a nightmare. The brooding might be sexy to some, but I want to slap it out of him.” The words continue to rush out, blood pumping with anger at Miles’s blame. “He found the right girl. She brought out the Dylan I knew years ago. That girl wasn’t me. Wasn’t I the one who helped bring him and Sky back together? Why do that if I wanted him myself? You’re ridiculous!”

  “That’s a lot of excuses, Myf. Who are you telling that to, you or me?” Miles pulls out a chair and sits. “I’m just saying you’re not blameless in this situation. You rejected me and—”

  I drag a chair out too, with enough violence it almost falls back to the floor, and sit. “What you really mean is his success threatened you. I never once compared you to him. I didn’t care what you did with your life. Well, apart from if you screwed other people, that’s a deal breaker.”

  Miles runs his tongue along his teeth. “When we were first together, and before Sky, I think you and him—”

  “For fucks sake!” I interrupt. “Really? And how long have you held onto that?”

  “Forget it, shouldn’t have said anything, but you piss me off with your holier than thou attitude.”

  “You’re a bigger asshole than I thought. You walk in here and accuse me of being the one who had an affair years ago, and use that to justify your behaviour on our bloody wedding day?”

  “No, I’m not. I’m just saying...” He rubs his nose with his fingers. “I should’ve ended things when I realised I loved Rick.”

  That.

  The word pulls down the last pillar holding up my belief him and Rick is a passing fling. Love. I have no words, chest tightening as he looks me in the eyes, unwavering.

  “You don’t marry someone if you love another person,” I say hoarsely.

  “I didn’t marry you, did I?”

/>   “You should’ve told me before July 23rd, not humiliated me. I will never, ever forgive you for that.”

  “It wasn’t intentional. Rick told me how he felt that morning... everything just spiralled out of control. I was going to speak to you quietly, but—”

  “Instead decided to... with him.” I wave my hand. “You bastard!”

  “I didn’t come here to argue. I just wanted to apologise and pick up my gear. I’m sorry everything ended like this.”

  The emotionless voice and curt words hurt, but his attempt to turn the situation on me hits below the belt. “I didn’t know you, Miles, did I?”

  “We both changed this last year, that’s all. I can’t fix what I did, and I feel like shit for doing it, but we need to find closure and move on.”

  “What are you, a fucking self-help book?”

  “I can’t stay if you’re aggressive with me, Myf.” He points to the boxes. “Is this everything?”

  Why, oh why, didn’t I set fire to these boxes? Right now, I could pick them up and throw the whole lot down the stairs.

  Anger steams through my veins, fuelled by weeks of frustration and hurt, my wedding day humiliation followed by his outright ignoring me afterwards.

  “You’re a coward,” I say in a low voice. “I suppose I should count myself lucky you didn’t marry me.”

  “Yeah, maybe find yourself someone who suits the new Myf.”

  “What new Myf?”

  “The one so focused on her career since she arrived in LA that she let her relationship slide.”

  “Bullshit! I had to work to pay the bills you weren’t contributing to!”

  He shrugs. “Whatever.”

  There it is. I changed to focus on my future; he remained a kid refusing to take on responsibilities. An immature guy, jealous of and threatened by another man. I loved Miles’s calm, laid-back manner, but now he’s illuminated a different side of what this is. Shirking responsibilities and living for now is all good when we started our relationship, but we’re older now. Responsibility sucks, but it’s part of adulting.

  “Running away again?” I snark.

  “I’m not staying in LA, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Good.”

  “I wish you luck though. Maybe you’ll find your own version of Dylan? Somebody famous. Hey, if you’re really lucky your new leading man might fall in love with you. You have a history too, right?”

  What just happened to my face that gave me away? Because Miles’s widened eyes and parted mouth are those of a man I’ve known years, and who still recognises my emotions. “Whoa, Myf. Have you already? Are you having an affair with Tate Daniels?”

  “Affair?” I laugh. “Don’t you think the press would know if we were screwing each other?”

  “Yeah, you wouldn’t be that stupid either.”

  “You mean he might cheat on me, Miles?”

  My comment counters his attack. He turns away from me, and I picture a kitchen knife in his back, to match the one he metaphorically stuck in mine on July 23rd. Violence isn’t an answer, and not part of my repertoire, but I can allow an imaginary stab or two. In silence, I watch him take boxes through the door and return for others, not speaking or looking at me again.

  The cliché “life is swings and roundabouts” echoes in my mind as we exchange an awkward and mutually passive-aggressive goodbye. The door slams closed behind him, and I rest against it, wanting the world to stay outside forever.

  No, not swings and roundabouts, they’re from childhood. Instead, I’m at the top of the highest rollercoaster. I can see the world, suspended for eternal moments frightened by what’s coming next. I didn’t register the slow climb upwards, and I’m terrified how out of control the descent down will be. Miles pushed me over the edge and sent me screaming away from the Myf I once knew.

  16

  I’m still tipping over the rollercoaster edge the next day. Less than an hour with Miles, and all my doubts and fears for the future crashed on my shoulders. There’s no security in anything I do in my personal or professional life, and now more than ever, I don’t know if I’m going to tip down the tracks and not make it back up the other side.

  At least today, back to the show, I’m somebody else: Brit Vale and her personal collection of neurosis. I can own hers, rather than acknowledge mine.

  Playing a romantic role will be a bloody big challenge right now.

  Unable to sleep, I drive to the studio early and skulk in my trailer for a while until I need to meet Tate. We catch up for read-throughs most mornings, in a corner of the set, before everybody else arrives, running through last minute alterations to the script. Usually there’re some lighting and set crew around, but apart from them, only us on folding black chairs in a corner.

  As the weeks pass, we relax around each other and the M word isn’t mentioned. He occasionally throws in innuendo and reminds me about our bet, which I inevitably retort with questions about his keeping the bargain. Because we never see each other socially, we have no chance to discuss things any further. Good thing, because I’m growing to like his new side I see on set. The more time I spend around Tate, the more I grow to know him. He’s not always the aloof, sleazy star I thought.

  He laps up attention, naturally, but I’ve witnessed him helping nervous extras or stepping in to defend Roger’s PA when she slipped up. He’s friendly and brings a liveliness to the set, and I gradually notice the aloofness or attitude is mostly directed at people who are the hardest to work with. The famous Tate Daniels bad attitude appears reserved for those in suits who call the shots, rather than those working or acting on set.

  Tate won’t stand for anybody being treated less than equal on a professional level, whether they’re an extra or a regular cast member. He’s forthright if someone screws up, but as quick to praise anybody he’s impressed by.

  All this surprises me.

  And temptation to allow him closer grows.

  Hair pulled from my face by a black headband, and dressed in loose black pants and a baggy grey top, I wait for Tate to appear. He’s late this morning—we won’t have time to go through much before wardrobe.

  On days he’s late, my mind immediately jumps to visions of him in bed with another girl, and my stomach always cramps at the thought. This reaction grows, adding more confusion to the situation. Am I being stubborn? Do I allow myself closer? I can’t risk my wrecked heart again yet, and Tate’s not the best man to attempt to mend it with.

  Tate lowers himself into the chair opposite. Bright eyes and clear face suggest he didn’t indulge in a late night. He’s clean-shaven this morning, unusual for him. I like his scruff; it adds a sexier, rougher side to his clean-cut features.

  See? These are things I shouldn’t notice. Not that, nor how snug his tee fits across the contoured chest and strong shoulders. Or how his lips tasted; the ones he rubs together as he returns my scrutiny.

  “How’s my wife today?”

  Oh great, he’s in that mood. “If you don’t want people finding out, shouldn’t you keep your voice down?” I lick my index finger and flick through the pages. “Oh, look, Dev walks around half-naked in the episode’s opening scene.”

  “We have to give the fans what they want.” He lifts his shirt, showing off the tight abs the world has seen too many times to count, but apparently never tire seeing.

  Ignore. Ignore. Ignore.

  Oh, God, that image isn’t disappearing in a hurry,

  “Mmm. And how’s Savannah?”

  His brow tugs deep at my rapid subject change. “None of your business.”

  “You’d better not have screwed her,” I say. “Oh, look. Shirtless again two scenes later.” I tap the page.

  “I haven’t.”

  “Or anybody.” I lift my eyes to meet his, and he hastily glances at his script.

  Aha. “Tate?”

  “We’re location filming for a couple days next week. Are you looking forward to that?”

  I respond with ice-cold sile
nce.

  Tate takes a furtive glance around, then moves his chair closer to mine. “No, I haven’t screwed anyone, but it’s bloody hard swearing off sex.”

  “Your right hand is your best friend,” I say. Whoa, where did that come from?

  “I’m left-handed.” Tate’s leg touches mine, and he places both hands on my knees. “I think of you when I do. You have no idea what you’re capable of in my imagination.”

  His words dive deep, and I press my legs together against his palms and the arousal flooding south.

  “That’s gross!” I lie and push his hands away.

  “I fantasise about pulling off the ass-hugging skirt you torture me with every day; unzipping, pulling the fabric slowly down your legs, fingers along you skin...” He closes his eyes and runs his tongue along his lips. “I picture unbuttoning your blouse...” He opens one eye. “Hey, do wardrobe choose your underwear as well?”

  Every word he spoke created a vivid scene in my mind, familiar signs of arousal growing with his words. His palms remain on my knees; he doesn’t move his hands but I’m heavily aware of his touch. “What?”

  He flicks a gaze to my baggy top, where my betraying body heats beneath. “Lingerie.” He bites his lip. “I caught a glimpse the other day when wardrobe was straightening your blouse. Lacy. Black. Seriously, I had to walk away because no sex is giving me a hard time. If you catch my drift...”

  “Tate.” I clear the hoarseness from my throat. “Stop.”

  “God, you sounded like Brit then. I need to get into character, you know. All this will happen in the show, I’m just preparing you.”

  “I’m aware, and I doubt things will be as explicit as they are in your mind.”

  “And yours, Myf.” His voice is lower, eyes dark. “Bad poker face, remember?”

  “Whatever.” I cringe at my useless, childish comeback.

  Tate shifts in his seat. “You’ve turned me into a teenage boy stuck with porn and fantasies. Damn I wish you hadn’t been that bloody drunk in Vegas.”

  Shit.

  Flashback.