METHOD

by Kate Stewart

  “You stupid woman, he’s a movie star. He doesn’t want to play house with you.” Ripping through my closet, I attempt to find something that may give me a little pride back. Picking the most form-fitting dress I own and fuck-me heels, I throw my shoulders back resigned to move on quickly. It’s the only way. “Make it painless. Rip off the band-aid,” I spur myself on, denying the dart of my eyes to check my phone to see if he responded over the last hour and a half I spent getting ready. Lips trembling, I paint my face carefully. “Who marries a movie star? Like what in the hell were you thinking?”

  I crumble as I remember the way he lingered after kissing me. I loved that. “Dammit! I knew it!” I say, gripping the edge of the sink and glaring at myself. “You will never, ever tell your mother about this.”

  I need friends. I make it a point to get out more, starting right now. I have no one to call. No one to tell me what to do when a movie star ghosts you.

  “Shit, he did. He ghosted me.” I check my phone one last time and decide to let in the ache. I’ve purposefully prolonged leaving the house for three hours in case I was overreacting and to marginally sober up. Certain he’s seen my fuck off texts, I power down my phone and head toward the door determined to gain some gravity back. Dating a movie star has fucked with my head.

  Opening my front door, I stop short when I see a breathless Nova coming toward me full speed with a phone to her ear. Taken aback by the expression on her face, I meet her halfway on the porch. Fear paralyzes me when I realize I might have been thinking along the wrong lines. A thousand scenarios cross my mind as I began to sink with dread.

  “Thank God you’re home,” she says, stopping a few feet away from me.

  I go to speak when she lifts her finger. “Yeah, I’ve got her. She looks pretty smoking,” Nova says with a smile which has some of the fear lifting.

  “Is that Lucas? He’s okay?” I ask hoarsely. I’m a basket case of emotion, the last few hours alone with my mind, wine, and pride have proved to be a lethal combination. I’m on the verge of tears as Nova eyes me and sees the battle scars which make up my expression.

  “She’s decked out. What? Oh, sure.”

  She lifts her phone and takes a photo.

  “Hey!” I bark.

  “On its way. She looks pretty pissed off, boss. Yeah, well everyone needs time off. Okay, chill out. Here she is.”

  She holds out her cell phone to me. “Told you he likes you.”

  Taking it, I raise it to my ear. “Hello?”

  “Fuck, baby, I’m so sorry. I lost my phone on set, and I didn’t have your number! I’ve been going out of my fucking mind trying to get in touch with Nova. I forgot she took a few vacation days.”

  As the truth sinks in, I realize I’m certifiable.

  My voice is barely a whisper. “You lost it?”

  “Yeah. Someone tried to reach you at your house yesterday, but you weren’t home.”

  “Oh,” I say, utterly perplexed. Nova eyes me as I try to mask a relieved tear that falls.

  “Where were you going?”

  Thrown by his question, I realize I have no idea. “What?”

  “Nova said you were dressed to kill. Where were you going?”

  “I was…” I trail off knowing the truth is ridiculous. What was I supposed to say? That I was trying to gain some semblance of life after being wooed and dumped by Lucas Walker? That I had talked myself into trying to forget him?

  “I thought…” I walk off to give myself some privacy from Nova’s prying eyes, “well, I thought maybe—”

  “Never mind, the picture just came through.” His disappointment bleeds through the line. “You look beautiful.” His tone turns to ice. “Who for?”

  “Sorry?” I ask as the blood drains from my face.

  “Who are you dressed like that for?”

  “For?” I’m stuttering out, terrified at what he must think and the fact that I might have ruined it by thinking the same way.

  “For me,” I say truthfully. “I wanted to feel better because I thought—”

  “You thought wrong,” he cuts me off sharply. “Don’t even think about doing what you were about to do.” His voice lacks warmth, ringing through detached which only makes it worse.

  It’s then I let some of my weakness show. “I suck at this. I don’t know what I was doing.”

  “You aren’t meeting anyone?”

  “No,” I sigh, “I was trying to talk myself into it.”

  He lets out a long breath.

  “I know it seems like a lot to ask, and it is. But I want us to happen. And if you do too, we can’t second-guess each other like this.”

  Hating how much I’ve already let myself care, I nod in agreement.

  “Mila. You there?”

  “Yes, yes, Lucas, yes. I just…I didn’t hear from you and I started thinking—”

  “Too much. Too fucking much. You can’t do that. I miss you, still. Don’t forget a second of what we have. I sure as hell haven’t.”

  That was the problem. I couldn’t forget any of it, drunk, sober, or sedated wearing a second-skin dress or a robe and rollers. “I better not regret this.”

  “I’m gonna get the girl,” he says in an aggravated whisper, “even if she’s trying to give me a fucking heart attack.”

  I sniff through my laugh and nod because exhaustion and a headache have set in.

  “Mila,” he whispers.

  “Yeah?”

  “I hate Egypt without you.”

  Mila

  My phone rang exactly three days after Lucas’s call, and I answer eagerly, with renewed faith.

  “Hi,” I say, sipping a new red. “How did it go today?”

  “I’m exhausted. What are you doing?”

  “Cooking dinner.”

  “What’s on the menu?”

  “Chicken Marsala? It’s my specialty. Do you like pasta?”

  “Love it. Sounds amazing.”

  “I’ll cook it for you when you get home.”

  “And then?”

  “And then what? You want the whole night laid out?”

  “Why not?”

  Grinning I pour more wine. “Okay, well if we’re doing a date my way, we’ll take dessert out into my rose garden.”

  “Okay.”

  “And then, I’ll give you a massage.”

  “Please God, no,” he rasps out.

  “Shut up, Walker. And then we’ll sleep.”

  “That’s it?” he prods. “Sounds pretty anti-climactic.”

  “Oh, yeah, that massage is actually a blow job. Another specialty.”

  “Mila,” he growls.

  “Hey, I tried to keep it PG.”

  “Don’t hold back.” His voice is thick, and I’m sure we’re about to initiate another phone session.

  “Okay,” I say, taking another sip of wine and lowering the temperature of my sauce. “I’m buzzed, so this could get detailed.”

  “Let’s get detailed.”

  I hear the crunch of rocks in my drive and look to see incoming headlights out of my kitchen window. “Crap, I think my mom just pulled up.”

  “Ignore her and talk dirty to me.”

  “Lucas,” I scold with a laugh. “I have to go.”

  “Okay, but make sure you keep those details close.”

  “Promise. Get some sleep, you must be exhausted.”

  It’s then that I see his Land Rover come into view and hear the playful lift to his voice. “Jet-lagged for sure.”

  “Lucas!” I scream, dropping the phone and throwing open my front door. I’m already sprinting toward him as he hops out of his SUV and opens for me just as I crash into him. Inhaling him, I hold him tight to me, and he keeps me there. “Oh, God, you just made the drive worth it. Double vision is a bitch, for a minute there I thought I was going to steer right off a fucking cliff.”

  I’m kissing every inch of his face as he speaks, his chin, his nose, his jaw before I pull back to catch his megawatt smile.


  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Isn’t this better?” he says, reading the elation in my expression that I’m doing nothing to hide.

  “Everything is better.”

  “Give me those fucking lips.” His kiss is both foreign and familiar and in minutes we’re back into a rhythm, tongues dancing furiously as he carries me into the house.

  “Wait!” I say when he gets me halfway down the hall. “Go back to the kitchen.”

  He frowns. “Not exactly comfortable.”

  “I have to turn off the sauce.” Still in his tight grip, he carries me to the kitchen and sets me down in front of the stove. I’m stirring the sauce and killing the burners when he moves my hair to the side to nibble at the skin of my neck. “Are you hungry?”

  “Starving, but that’s priority number two.” He turns me to face him and takes my lips with surety and possession. “I need inside you right now.”

  An orgasm later, we’re eating lukewarm pasta in our underwear while I’m tracing his every feature with my eyes as he sucks the sauce-coated noodles into his mouth. Resting against my headboard while he dines, I’m finally able to drink him in. His tan is much darker, and he’s weary-eyed, but the rest of him looks incredible.

  “I can’t believe you’re here.”

  “I can’t believe how good this is,” he says, taking the half-full bowl of pasta I’d set on my nightstand and digging in. “You said this was Chicken Marsala?”

  “Yes. And I made fudge cake. My comfort foods.”

  His eyes lift to mine. “Comfort food, huh?”

  “Yes, I’ve been a little lonely. I mean, of course. Work and home, just very routine, well it didn’t seem routine…” I trail off because I’ve said too much.

  “And you were going to throw us away,” he says, his tone laced with contempt.

  “I don’t know what I was about to do, but I was hurt, okay?”

  “Not okay,” he says, shoving in more noodles and cleaning up the sauce on his jaw with his hand. “What hurts is that you would think the worst about me.”

  “You don’t know what I was thinking.”

  He sets the bowl down and brings ice green eyes to mine. “Let me see if I can take a guess. You were thinking, movie star, he’s probably found someone to fuck on set.”

  Guilty, my eyes drop.

  “Let’s analyze this and then table it because I’ve been trying pretty damn hard from the onset to make myself clear. I want to build something with you. And I can’t do it alone. I’m not a movie star, I’m an actor. And I love my job, but it’s my job. I want the same things as everyone else, a place to call home, reciprocal love. I’m not at the place of party and pussy anymore.”

  “Geesh, okay,” I say, gathering our dishes. “We haven’t been dating that long.”

  “Three months,” he says pointedly, grabbing my wrist. “Longer, really. All of that time apart counts. Those phone calls count. It’s a part of it. This time apart was a test we passed, no thanks to you.”

  “I wasn’t going to—”

  “You were a woman who thought she’d been scorned which made you unpredictable. You have no idea what you would have done.”

  I sit at the edge of the bed next to his muscled thigh and look over to where he rests against my headboard. “This is hard, Lucas.”

  “Just as hard for me,” he says unwavering. “All relationships are hard. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Just try to have a little more faith in me, in us, and trust.” He leans over and sucks my nipple into his mouth tugging the taut skin softly with his teeth. And then his hands, his perfect hands are on my skin, and I’m underneath him. Hovering above me as I lay panting, he doesn’t move just stares down at me expectantly.

  “Okay. I’m sorry. You’re right.”

  “Good, because I propose you agree to a few more things,” he murmurs before turning me into a puddle of agreement beneath him.

  “Hit ‘em, knock ‘em over—with an attitude, with a word, with a look.”—Marlon Brando

  Lucas

  TWO AND HALF MONTHS AGO

  “Hey, boss,” Nova calls out to me where I sit in a director’s chair on set. “We’re about forty in of forty-five.” I nod in acknowledgment, and she leaves me to prep. Satisfied with what I’ve rehearsed, I let my eyes drift from the script to the clouds above trying to blink away the fatigue. I refuse to let it slow me down. Body aching from lack of sleep, I stretch my neck and arms as exhaustion threatens to set in. Batting away my needs, I think of Maddie, of the way she worked me constantly to rid me of all selfish thoughts while she prepped me. Though she mercilessly drilled into me that the emotions of my characters mattered most, Maddie had her own points of weakness. In all our years together, I can only think of one time that she begrudgingly revealed them to me.

  I take the cracked cement steps to her trailer and knock twice before I open the door.

  “Maddie,” I call softly before I close it behind me. Sunlight streams through the window past the sheet in the empty living room. I never take my shoes off at home, but I do at Maddie’s because she keeps her carpets clean. Sliding them off, I call her name again.

  “Go home, boy,” she orders from her bedroom. “We aren’t running lines today.”

  Too excited to mind her, I run to her bedroom. “I brought you something.”

  “Lucas,” she scolds when I reach the threshold and see her lifting to sit in her robe. She doesn’t have any makeup on, and there’s an empty bottle next to her nightstand.

  “You aren’t supposed to drink, it will dry out your skin.”

  “Do as I say, not as I do,” she says, gathering tissues and tossing them in the seashell covered wastebasket next to her. “I’m tired, boy, run on home. We can run lines tomorrow.”

  “It’s okay, I just,” I approach the bed and hold out the drawing. “I made you something.”

  She straightens up further, and her eyes focus on the paper I have in hand. She takes it from me and studies it until her eyes start to spill.

  “I didn’t want to make you cry,” I say, backing away.

  “You drew this?” she asks, her voice chalky. “It’s pretty good.”

  “They told us to draw stars,” I say, thinking myself clever. “So, I drew us. My teacher got mad, but I don’t care.”

  Maddie begins to cry again, and I cautiously approach the bed. “If you feel bad, I can get you some medicine. I think we have some at home.”

  She shakes her head, sniffing and pulls a used tissue to her face to wipe her tears away. “I’m not that kind of sick.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  She waves me away. “I heard from my old agent today, just a little sting of rejection. It will pass.”

  “You weren’t right for the part,” I declare because that’s what she taught me. “Or the part wasn’t right for you.”

  “There are no parts left for me, Lucas,” she sighs.

  “It’s just not your time, you have to keep your head up. I’ll get you some juice.” I race to the kitchen and grab her favorite glass from the sink, rinse it out and fill it up with carrot juice. Back in the bedroom, I thrust it at her, spilling a little on her comforter and wincing when she sees it.

  She cracks a smile and shakes her head. “I’ve created a monster.”

  “You know it, Dame,” I say, chucking her chin.

  Laughter erupts from her as she sets the juice down and motions for me to come closer. “You know better than to toss that word around.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Come closer, Lucas. Let me look at you.”

  Swallowing, I take a step forward as she scrutinizes me. “Wow, look at you. You’re getting so big. Hopefully, you grow into that nose.”

  “I’m eleven tomorrow.”

  She waves a dismissive hand. “And then you’re sixteen and then you’re fifty-six. Do yourself a favor and remember that.”

  Unsure of what she means, I just nod. “Okay.”
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br />   “Hit them hard, or they’ll forget about you before the tape runs out,” she says on a shaky voice just as another tear falls. Climbing up into the bed next to her, I throw my arm around her like my favorite character Terrance does in The Sky’s Limit.

  “I won’t forget about you, Maddie. I promise.”

  Pushing from my chair, I roll the script in my hand and walk toward my mark.

  This one is for you, Maddie.

  Mila

  Humming to the radio, I drive down the stretch of road leading to our beach house, hopes for the night floating around my head, a bag of supplies in my back seat. It’s only when I’m close to home that I see endless rows of cars parked on either side of the street. “What in the hell?” I mumble after clicking my signal to see our driveway full. I manage to find a spot several houses down. Giving myself a little pep talk, I carry the bags that originally felt light in weight that now weigh heavy in my arms as I’m forced to haul them to the house. The sun beats down on my shoulders and music blares from all corners of our home as I approach. Opening our front door, I feel a thud and peek my head around. A man I’ve never seen greets me. “I think you might have the wrong house, miss. This is Lucas Walker’s place.”

  “Is it?” I snap, balancing the bags on my leg and holding up my wedding ring. “Does this gain me entry?”

  “That’s Walker’s wife, you idiot,” another guy says, stepping toward me with a grin. “Sorry about him.”

  “And you are?”

  “Lance, I’m one of the crew.”

  “Ah,” I say as I attempt to shove through the warm bodies blocking the doorway, the bags getting heavier by the second. The smell of weed wafts into the living room from the kitchen terrace as I set the grocery bags down. A blonde in a bikini top and barely-there shorts raises my favorite wine glass and a bottle I’d been saving for a special occasion. “Would you like a glass? It’s really good.”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” I say, snatching the bottle from her hand and hearing “bitch” muttered behind me. Taking the bag I’d waited weeks to pick up down the hall and into our bedroom, I toss it into our closet as I try to talk myself down from murder one to assault and battery. At least Lucas had made our bedroom off limits, and I was relieved to see there wasn’t a soul in sight. Standing in my closet, I fume as I tip the wine back.