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“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.”
“I love wine.” We share a smile as he takes a sip and I watch his reaction, which is typical. We drink in the setting sun peeking through a small patch of cotton clouds in silence, admiring the day’s end.
I take another sip, letting the grapes ferment on my tongue before I swallow it down and break the silence. “It’s good, isn’t it?”
We both know I’m not asking about the wine.
“It’s fucking incredible,” he says, taking his seat in the chair next to mine. “I’m almost certain he’s shooting in sequence.”
Wes is one of a few Hollywood directors that shoots the scenes in order from beginning to end. It’s the perfect setup for a Method actor like my husband because it helps his evolvement. Inside, I’m screaming, but I don’t let on I’m terrified of what he may evolve into. The argument will be futile anyway. He’s only taken on a few roles that require this much dedication and those had been taxing on our relationship. But we’d made it through, and the results were phenomenal, earning him his first Golden Globe, which Mother made sure to be present for as a former press member.
The hypocrite.
Still, it means I’ll lose him for the time it takes to prep and shoot, and he’s quiet because he can’t assure me of anything. I signed up for it. I decide to hold any objections until I’ve read the script myself, but I already know it’s too late.
“So, I can read it?” I say, standing, all too eager to see what we’re up against.
“Not yet,” he says, pulling me to sit between his legs on the comfortable deck chair. I lie back with my head resting on his collarbone. We sink into each other, relaxing as the tide pulls sand away from the shore. To our right, the Santa Monica pier bursts to life in violet and blue in contrast with the darkening sky.
“Tell me,” I whisper.
“This is the one. It’s what I’ve been waiting for and feels original. I mean it’s a bit cliché in the rags to riches aspect, but you know I can identify with that and use it. But there’s a lot I can’t. You’ll see when you read.”
I nod. “How bad was he?”
His momentary silence speaks volumes. “Pretty fucking bad. Unpredictable, volatile, he had an insatiable taste for blood and vengeance. He was a closet heroin addict and a womanizer.”
Sarcasm coats my voice. “Sounds awesome, honey.”
We share a laugh as my chest sinks. Lucas takes the glass from my hand and sets it on the table before wrapping soothing arms around me. “It’s the role of a lifetime,” he murmurs as his hands cover me in a gentle caress. “The Scarface of the twenty-first century. I’ve got to go all in. And with the timeframe and the amount of prep I have to do, it’s going to be grueling. I’ll have to isolate a lot, and I don’t want you to take it personally.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask, knowing the answer.
