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Lucas: When, when will you talk to me?
Lucas: Tell me where you are.
Lucas: I didn’t do this to hurt you.
Lucas: Please just tell me you’re okay.
I hadn’t texted him since I left for the winery. It was wrong, immature to make him worry like that, but I needed space and he refused to give it. He was a hypocrite that way, and it only fueled my anger.
As time went on, his texts got more aggressive which meant he was drinking.
Lucas: Thanks, wife. Really. You never trusted me, did you?
Lucas: I guess you want to start over now? The problem is WE ARE NOT FUCKING FINISHED. I won’t let you go.
Lucas: Jesus Christ, Mila, don’t do this.
Lucas: I have the right to fucking know where you are!
Mila: I’m home. Don’t come.
Lucas: Home? Our home?
If he’s not there, where is he? I can’t bring myself to ask.
Mila: The cottage
Lucas: I’ll give you space. I swear to God I will, but please don’t ever do that again. I’m begging you.
Aching to fire back with a “how does it feel?” I refrain from a reply. Anger is still winning. That’s
my decision today. I know I need to open up the lines of communication but everything I want to say is petty, pointless, and more aggression than progression.
Running a shower, I decide to extend a temporary olive branch.
Mila: I won’t do it again. That’s the only promise I’m making.
Lucas: I love you.
Toweling off, I lick the tears from my lips. Once dressed, I run my sleeve under my nose and crawl into bed, exhausted. My fingers linger over my cell pad briefly before I decide not to respond. Love isn’t the issue. It never was. We’ve had it in abundance, along with a healthy dose of trust. He’d rearranged our universe to revolve around the other, and once we did, we were both sealed in our fate, destined to be the moon and obeying tide. I glowed in his affection while he swept me away with one electrifying wave after another. The week after Lucas and I went to the movies, we came out as a couple at my first Hollywood gala, which just so happened to be a star-studded union party.
Sitting in the back of the limo, I smooth down my dress for the hundredth time. I bought a Valentino I could not afford and spent the day working my hair into something resembling a half up-do I saw on YouTube. I’m nervous, and of course, he senses it as he takes my hand and pulls it to his lips.
“Stop staring,” I snap, and he chuckles.
“If you didn’t want me to stare, you shouldn’t have worn that. It’s sexy as fuck, and you look stunning.”
“Sorry,” I say, swallowing. “I get snappy when I’m nervous.”
“Don’t be nervous.”
“Is there a stocked bar somewhere in here?” I open the cupboard next to me and frown when I come up empty and turn on him. “Shouldn’t limos have a stocked bar?”
“Not this one, sorry. I’ll get you some champagne as soon as we get there.”
“Okay,” I nod. “I swear to God, this is nothing like the movies. You people are all liars.”
I see him in my peripheral trying to stifle his grin.
