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,