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“I quit working because I missed my husband. I wanted to be able to travel with you when you were filming. You know that. What is it with having a baby lately? We never even discussed it when I quit, and that’s all you’ve been talking about since Blake died. We’ll get there. What’s the rush?” The idea of a baby with Lucas is a dream, but something about his urgency to have one taints the thought. A baby is not a solution for anything.
“People die,” he speaks so casually it’s terrifying, “that’s the rush. If you died, I’d have a piece of you, and vice versa.”
“I can’t believe you just said that.” I trail him into the living room as he sips on the beer that I thought was water, that he’d retrieved from the fridge.
“Well, it’s true. I don’t want to be left, period, but if you do, I want that piece of you. I want to know that what we have is going to live on, at least through our kid. I don’t want to be left without anything.”
Stunned, I watch him. “Is that what you think? He left you without anything?”
He shakes his head with evident irritation. “This isn’t about Blake.”
I ball my fists. “It sure as hell is. You weren’t talking this way a week ago.”
“And life happened, and that’s how we evolve around it. We see things as they are, and we change things…adapt.”
“Adapting isn’t having a baby!” I’ve lost my patience, and my husband has lost his mind. I pace in front of him as he calmly sits on the couch and narrows his eyes on me.
“What’s your holdup? Even if you think I’m asking because of Blake, the baby isn’t coming overnight, it takes time,” he gestures toward me.
“So, you think there’s a time limit on grief?” I laugh sarcastically. “Are you hearing yourself? Okay, well I damn sure hope you’re over sixteen years with Blake in nine months because anything you say or do can mess our child up for life. And honestly, I’m not sure I want to take on that responsibility yet. I like being able to do and say what I want. Behaviors have to change or there are consequences. You know that firsthand.”
His retort cuts me in two. “Why? Because I came from white trash?”
Covering my mouth, I shake my head, my breaths coming fast. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. That’s not what I meant.”
He shakes his head dismissively. “It’s the truth, Mila.”
“It’s not. That’s not who you are.”
I walk toward him slowly, a plea on my lips. “Please help me,” I ask. “Tell me what you need.”
I’m over the guessing, the analyzing. I need words to say, actions to take. I need a way to get to him, to be able to touch him without feeling like he’s going to crack, explode, or both. His silence confirms my suspicions. He doesn’t know himself, and he thinks work, a baby, and avoidance is the solution. To be someone else, to escape the gnawing questions. He can’t evade this, and he needs to know it.
“You aren’t ready,” I say finally. “You know you aren’t.”
“I need to get back to work,” he declares through the heavy air between us. His abrupt tone cuts our connection as he palms the edge of the couch, fingering the brass studs on the end of it. “And apparently you do too if we’re…if we’re not going to try for a family.” He’s hurt by my refusal to entertain it. For the sake of peace, I’m inclined to give in and agree, but that would make me a hypocrite. I want us both on more stable ground before we take on the task of parenting. He’s just been delivered the blow of his life. He needs time, whether he thinks so or not. Taking on another movie is just a way of prolonging it.
“He was sober,” I say softly. “There were no traces of anything in his system.”
He pauses with the beer halfway to his lips and then nods, avoiding my watchful gaze. “I know.”
Lucas
Sitting at the kitchen table as the sun creeps up over the horizon, I scroll through the latest story full of accusation. Two more women have come forward naming Blake as being present the night they were assaulted, yet no charges have been filed against him or anyone else. Reports of an investigation are underway, but so far, it’s just hearsay. The story is selling in the media in a major way especially since Blake died.
One of the women talking, a former co-star of us both, states it was the night of our very first wrap party and a sick foreboding washes over me. His name is there, in black and white, but it’s just a mention he attended the party. What’s unclear is why they would name Blake if he’s not being accused and not the other hundred or more other people that were present? The hardest part to take is that if they’re using Blake to garner attention, they’re tarnishing whatever reputation he has left in the process and he’s not here to defend himself. Wracking my brain, I stare at the brightening sky trying to remember the details of the Misfits wrap party.
Blake slides a line my way as he coats his teeth with the residue from the edge of his credit card. I’m not much of a fan of coke, but it’s been a grueling couple of weeks on set and tonight I’ve decided to partake. I need the pick-me-up to make it through the party. None of this seems real. Two years ago, we were slinging drinks at Queens and trying to believe in our collective dream, hoping for more. This was the more. And it was nothing to sneeze at. The product of our labor led to a global theater release. This flick had cult classic written all over it. Because Blake had some formal traini
ng, he’d spent some of his spare time trying to school me on techniques he’d picked up along the way, and I’d paid attention. By the time they snapped the first marker, I felt prepared. And from the feedback, it seemed like I delivered. Blake had brought his A game playing the lead vigilante to the group of delinquents, and he’d pulled it off in spades. I’d played one of his recruits. We’d auditioned for every gig, big and small, but our break came when we were spotted at the Skybar sipping overpriced drinks by a petite brunette, a casting director with a no-bullshit attitude, who was looking for two guys who fit the mold to piece together a new movie. We fit. After a few minutes of conversation, she produced her card and asked us to come in to read for her. The next day we’d made it our first phone call, and the rest was history. We gave everything we had to the movie in hopes it was the beginning of more. I was optimistic, but Blake had been burnt one too many times and had a healthy dose of hesitance in declaring anything. Though even he was having a hard time getting past the fact that it wasn’t a low budget film and the director had an extensive list of hits under his belt.
Leaning down on the porcelain counter, I sniff the line and wave my hand when Blake ushers more powder my way.
“I’m good,” I say, wiping the residue off the bathroom counter. We’re at one of the producer’s houses and I’m a bit creeped out with how at home some of these people are making themselves in a house so grand. “And this never happened.”
Blake eyes me curiously. “This your first time?”
“No, I did some with you last summer on the roof, remember? But it’s probably my last time. I’m good with coffee.”
