METHOD

by Kate Stewart

  The media hadn’t been very creative, it was almost as if the press was gunning for him, like someone was keeping tabs for any minor slip-up and then calling him out on every misstep to keep him in check. But I didn’t have to worry about distancing myself. I’ve been busy, so busy I left him to fend for himself.

  Covered in sweat, I revel in the burn of my biceps and calves as I wade to nowhere, while memories of hidden hill houses and foggy nights behind the gates trap me with more questions. I’m not such an open book anymore because I don’t fully know my own story, not the parts that include missing chapters with Blake. I have my suspicions that he was a rag doll for the business, maybe more of a puppet than the rest of us. And I wasn’t there to protect him. He was the one who needed it, who always needed it.

  My cell rings as a welcome distraction, and I tap my headphones to answer.

  “Lucas,” my agent, Shannon, coos over the line. “I’ve got something. Wes wants you for this part, and I think it’s what you’ve been waiting for.”

  “Wes?” Wes Nolan is one of the most respected directors in the business but is heavily into big-budget trilogies.

  “I’m done with franchise for the moment. I’ve made that clear.”

  “This is a departure for him, Lucas, and for you. Silver Ghost.”

  I stop my movements. “Nikki Rayo’s story?”

  “That’s the one,” she pipes enthusiastically.

  Rumors have been circulating that Wes was going to write a script. He must have been keeping it under wraps because no one has been talking about it as of late.

  “Who picked it up?”

  “Paramount. The offer is your standard with incentive. I’ll courier the script over.”

  “Sounds good, thanks, Shannon.”

  “You doing okay?”

  “I’m living.” Which is more than I can say for Blake.

  “Look, I know this isn’t the right time, but I’ve gotten in touch with Leann just as a precaution.” Leann Shear is my publicist who is hell-bent on making sure Blake’s “incident” doesn’t harm my career. Having an entanglement with a Hollywood has-been who just committed suicide is apparently bad press. I couldn’t give a shit. Anyone who knows me knows my brand and also knows that Blake West was my best friend. It’s not news. People can speculate all they want about his demons. My reasons for being silent about what he did aren’t because I’m some asshole who can’t admit we were close, it’s because I have no fucking idea what to say.

  “No comment, that’s our stance. I mean it. No matter what surfaces. I’ll make the call on this.”

  “Lucas—”

  “Shannon,” I bark, “this isn’t negotiable.”

  She pauses over the line. “Understood. Look, I hate to pressure you at a time like this, but Wes is anxious to get started.”

  “How long?”

  “As soon as they find the lead. Everyone else has been cast.”

  “Who’s signed on?”

  I hear the clutter of paperwork in front of her. “Looks like he went with a few up-and-coming for younger parts, Adriana Long as the wife and Matt Roth signed up too.”

  I’m impressed. Both have grabbed gold in the last few ceremonies.

  “Send the contract so I can take a look.”

  I hear the click of her keyboard. “Done. Wes wants to set up a meeting for the day after tomorrow.”

  My cynical brain wins. “Who dropped out?”

  Her silence confirms it.

  “Shannon, if they’re already pre-production, who the hell do you think you’re fooling?”

  I’m not pissed at being second choice, I’m pissed at the way my agent thinks I’m still too fucking naïve to figure it out. Years ago, I wouldn’t have blamed her. It’s a different story now.

  “Shannon? Who dropped out?”

  “Will Hart. Schedule issues or something.”

  “I’ve told you a thousand times this shit makes you look shady,” I snap.

  “Sorry, Lucas, I just…you know how it is.”

  I shake my head in frustration though she can’t see it. “I don’t need my ego stroked, I need honesty. You think you’re capable of that? I don’t want to have this conversation again.”

  “Jesus, Lucas,” Mila whispers from behind me. I don’t know how long she’s been there, but her tone tells me it’s been long enough.

  Shannon’s silence confirms she’s just as shocked by my bite. “Sorry, Lucas, it won’t happen again.”

  “Make sure it doesn’t, or I’ll find someone else to take a percentage to fucking translate.” I end the call and continue rowing. I can’t bring myself to look at my wife. I’m pissed, and I just want to stay that way. Somewhere between answering my phone five days ago and this moment, my confidence has been shaken in a way I can’t grasp, and I don’t want her to see.

  “You’re not ready,” Mila whispers behind me.

  “I’m not going to just sit in the house and wait for the egg to crack.”

  “Then let’s go somewhere,” she pleads. “Anywhere.”

  “I want to work.”

  She circles me to stand in my line of vision. Every time I see this woman, the epiphany strikes much like the first time I saw her. For me, she is the very look and definition of love. There’s nothing I should be afraid to tell her, she’s fully aware of my insecurities because she worked hard to unveil them and embrace them. I knew she was the one mere hours after I laid eyes on her.

  My anger is overshadowing all of these facts as I gaze up at her astoundingly beautiful form. From her polished toes, her lithe frame, to bee-stung lips and almond-shaped gray eyes, she’s unbelievable. My anger doesn’t change my desire for her. I know I’m hurting her with my silence. We’ve never felt this far apart when I wasn’t on the job. Not for a single day in the last five years we’ve been married, and I can’t bring myself to try and fix it. I stop my rowing, exhausted as she kneels next to me, her chalk-white sundress flaring around her knees. She looks over at me through rain-cloud-colored eyes and thick black lashes, her lips still a bit swollen from all the unearned punishment I’ve been doling out. Most would consider our relationship a bit co-dependent, and they would be exactly fucking right. We don’t do much of anything without the other. We don’t need space to be individuals, because we’re the better version of ourselves when we’re together, at least I am. But when I got that call, something I didn’t know was thinning in me snapped, and I can’t figure out where it came from or how to tie it back together. I’m exhausted on a level I’m unfamiliar with, and I just want to get past it.

  “Tell me what you need,” she says, running fingers through my sweat-soaked hair. “You’re pushing too hard.”

  “So are you,” I let out gruffly, while contradictorily sinking into her touch.

  She ignores my snark. “You’re restless.”

  I pull her to me, dousing her clean cotton dress with the filthy aftermath of my workout.

  Her eyes widen when she detects the evidence of my growing erection. I’ve been fucking her every few hours for the last couple of days. Maybe it’s a way of coping, but it’s also invigorating. Every time I’m inside my wife, I feel better, stronger, and worshipped, even if it’s short-lived. I am loved by her in a way no other woman could ever master. Mila is the answer, my answer. I’m lucky. Blake never found his. But this problem she can’t solve. This sin she can’t absolve me of. I’m guilty in a way I can’t be redeemed, and there’s no coming back. There’s no way to make it up to him.

  I get to be happy. I get the career, I get to live. And the man I loved as a brother will never meet my future son or daughter because his instincts failed him. Life had disappointed him to the point he severed ties with it.

  “What are you thinking?” she asks, looking down at me with a soft gaze.

  “Baby. I want one.”

  She shakes her head allowing me to soil her before pulling me closer. “We can talk about this in a few months.”

  I kiss the skin of
her throat as she wraps her long legs around me.

  “You aren’t well, my love.”

  “I’m fine. Stop it. He’ll still be dead in a few months.”

  “Maybe so, but I want you to remember all of it.”

  I jerk my head back and look up at her. “What?”

  She pauses, eyeing me cautiously. “Thanksgiving, last year. How did we spend it?”

  I wrack my brain but can’t come up with anything.

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Exactly.” She pulls away and stands to linger above me.

  “We weren’t home?” Confused, I look up at her for an answer.

  She slowly shakes her head. “You were working on Erosion.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Yeah.”

  “Yeah, you couldn’t repeat a word I said that whole damned two months you were shooting. This is a prime example of why I want to wait. You don’t even remember where we were. You barely came home at Christmas.”

  “That I remember.” South of France. It was a good one. Immersion isn’t necessarily a bad thing; in fact, it’s what’s propelled me into the kind of actor I want to be, but my memory gets foggy in the weeks and months that I spend behaving as someone else. I find I have a selective sort of memory in those days. I’m not exactly somewhere else, but I’m most definitely not present. Mila’s never been a fan of my routine, but she understands, I made sure of it. She supports me and is the best imaginable partner, even though she sometimes feels neglected while I shoot. It’s easy to forget where you were and where you’ve been when you travel nine months out of the year.

  Though we aren’t separated while I film, I often have to isolate to get into character, and ‘coming home’ is Mila’s way of letting me know when I was and wasn’t in a brain fog.

  “What’s this script?” she asks, a trickle of accent kicking in. I love it when her mother’s French tongue thickens her voice. It’s one of the sexiest things about her.

  “It’s a movie about Nikki Rayo.”

  Her eyes widen. “The mafia guy?”

  “Yeah. They’re already in pre-production. It’s going to move quick.”

  “You just wrapped.”

  “Mila,” I say on a sigh. “That was a month ago. And I know I freed up a few months for us, but I can’t pass on this, baby. It’s a golden ticket.” I’ve been waiting for years for an opportunity like this. I’d played the spy, the rock star, the superhero. I’d done some variation of it all. I’d just wrapped on a romantic comedy that left a bad taste in my mouth. I needed something to get my hunger back.

  It was getting too humdrum, too comfortable and I hated it. Mila was right, I was restless, and this part could be just the one I needed to hit reset. The death of an actor’s passion has everything to do with getting comfortable. It’s one of the first things Maddie taught me. I was no longer testing my capabilities, and that was dangerous.

  The look of disappointment on my wife’s face exhausts me as I wipe off with a towel. I’m sure my expression matches hers for the fact she won’t even entertain the idea of a baby, which we both agreed we wanted before we got married. We’re in the perfect position to start. Where I go, my family can go as well. I’m trying to understand her holdup, but it’s grating on me. I never planned on marrying, not really against it and never really thought much about kids. My end goal was always to be a working actor, but once I met Mila, and I started getting steady jobs, my dreams changed for the better. They got bigger because of her. Never did I think myself capable, but I have more to give. And I want to share it with a piece of the both of us. She thinks it’s grief talking and maybe that’s a part of it, but not all of it, and I can’t seem to convince her otherwise due to the timing.

  She matches my stare, the perfect picture of innocence. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  My arguing tongue gets silenced by the heavy chime of our doorbell, and I get to my feet. “That’s the courier with the script.”

  I’m already halfway toward the stairs when she stops me. “Lucas …”

  Hanging my head, I take a breath and glance back at her.

  “I don’t like this.”

  “I need something. I can’t just sit around here.”

  “This isn’t it,” she pleads with me.

  The bell rings again, and I avert my gaze and take the steps to the front door.

  Mila

  Dread fills me as Lucas practically leaps the stairs for the front door. Something about the timing of this script has my nerves fraying. Something about Lucas’s desperation, and the needs I’m unable to meet, instill a sort of fear. I’m beyond sore, my sex constantly pulsing with the ache of being overfilled and the unbearable emptiness of wanting more. He’s fucking me constantly, but we aren’t connecting the way I’m used to, and I’m questioning what it could mean because his silence has returned. Maybe he thinks I need the closeness for reassurance, or perhaps he does.

  Everything is off, and it’s to be expected, but the unease has me reeling. Blake is gone. Lucas is searching, and I’m unsure of what direction to step in. I’m not really a doting wife. Not in the sense that I wait on my husband’s emotions hand and foot. He’s self-made and doesn’t need constant reassurance. But we’re a team. Things seemed to fall into place for us when we met, and we’ve always gotten what we needed from the other. Now I’m unsure if he would ask for it if he knew. I’m terrified what he’s looking for is in a place I can’t reach him, but it’s the place he wants to be. I’m not a superstitious or religious woman, but I find myself praying a little as the front door opens and closes while I pour him a glass of carrot juice. He stalks back into the kitchen where I wait and tosses the script on the counter. Eyeing the bound front of it, I read the title “Silver Ghost.”

  “That’s a cool name.”

  “Yeah, it is. It’s the name of the 1920 Rolls Royce that his body was discovered in, which is ironic because it was his first big purchase when he started making real money. Rayo reigned in the seventies and eighties but was obsessed with his predecessors.”

  My curiosity is piqued. “So, you’re familiar with Rayo?”

  “He’s fascinating as a character.” He takes the juice from me across our large kitchen island before taking a healthy sip. “I heard it from someone on the set of Erosion that Wes was working on a script and refused to show it to anyone.”

  I’m restless where I stand because I know if the script is decent, Lucas has already made his decision.

  “Can I read it?”

  He eyes me over the glass as sweat trickles down his forehead. His V-neck is drenched and clings to every pronounced indentation of his chest.

  He shakes his head. “After me, okay?”

  I nod and move to leave when I hear him sigh.

  “Will you send her something?” he asks, before swallowing down the last of his juice and washing out his glass.

  “To Shannon?”

  He pauses at the sink, nodding. It’s only fitting he would feel like shit after talking to her like that. Lucas rarely ever talks down to his team. It’s his own rule.

  When I don’t respond, he flashes me bloodshot eyes.

  It’s just a glimpse of him, but it offers some relief. “Of course, I know what she likes.”

  “Thanks, baby,” he murmurs.

  I leave the kitchen as he turns the first page.

  “You are not marrying a goddamned movie star.” My mother’s words echo as I sit on our deck overlooking the ocean with wine in hand. “I raised you to make smart decisions, Mila, and this is not a smart decision. Marriage is hard enough without an inflated male ego playing a part in it. I promise you, actors are the weakest kind of men. They need way too much to be happy. They don’t know how to be satisfied.”

  The day Lucas and I got married she was the only one crying in the front row because she wasn’t happy which I found hysterical. I still catch myself giggling when I recall how she was unable to control her snot-nosed protest when we exchanged rings. As
a jaded ex-member of the Hollywood Foreign Press, my mother has never thought much of actors. When I was younger, she’d idolized old Hollywood but was very careful to keep me away from anything pertaining to it. I still remember her look of relief when I declared my major, and it had nothing to do with the movies. Still, every time she sees Lucas and me together, I see a sort of gleam in her eyes, a type of longing, as if I’m living out some fantasy for her. Though you would never know it with the way she shares a passion for my father. Their relationship was wild to witness growing up. They were openly affectionate. Most of my friends thought my parents were hippies. The truth was my father was a misplaced—as in a liberal state—right-wing conservative due to my mother’s overt involvement in the industry. He bent for her, compromising the most and often, which is the way they worked. Often times, they would openly kiss and heavy pet in front of God and everyone, and I envied that. I secretly loved the way my father lost his sensibilities when he was with her. I wanted it for myself. And I declared it so when Lucas and I got together. I never shied away from our connection in public which took some getting used to on his part. He didn’t want me to be a target. Now, there are probably thousands of pictures on the web of us exchanging affection. I’ve never paid much attention to the media where we as a couple are concerned. I’m a firm believer people interpret what’s convenient for them and their mood.

  Hours have passed since I left Lucas to his script. I’ve spent several of those hours trying to lose myself in a novel I can’t get into on our wooden deck, just a stone’s throw away from the surf. When he’s home, we end our days on our sundeck sharing a glass of wine. It’s a ritual to keep us connected. As I sit in wait, I feel like I’m expecting a verdict of sorts when his voice rouses me from my thoughts. “What you up to, Dame?”

  I pour a second glass of wine and set it on the mosaic-tiled table next to his chair. “You know, the same old philanthropy. Supporting local wineries.”

  He chuckles, taking the offered wine. “Good?”

  “Yeah, but you won’t like it.”