“Yeah, it is. It’s the name of the 1920 Rolls Royce that his body was discovered in, which is ironic because it was his first big purchase when he started making real money. Rayo reigned in the seventies and eighties but was obsessed with his predecessors.”
My curiosity is piqued. “So, you’re familiar with Rayo?”
“He’s fascinating as a character.” He takes the juice from me across our large kitchen island before taking a healthy sip. “I heard it from someone on the set of Erosion that Wes was working on a script and refused to show it to anyone.”
I’m restless where I stand because I know if the script is decent, Lucas has already made his decision.
“Can I read it?”
He eyes me over the glass as sweat trickles down his forehead. His V-neck is drenched and clings to every pronounced indentation of his chest.
He shakes his head. “After me, okay?”
I nod and move to leave when I hear him sigh.
“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?”