Sea as I walk down the corridor. Not bothering to look up to see the pity in their eyes, I march toward the elevator as a wave of humiliation wipes my every conviction away.
I’m just another Hollywood wife who got jealous, a wife who lost her husband to his career and a possible on-screen romance. Truth from fiction. A month ago, I would have said none of it was true, and I wouldn’t have cared who believed it. I feel the opposite of that now. I want to scream that my husband loves me, that what we have is rare, that we are the exception, that our love story is genuine, that we can’t be fazed, that we are unbreakable, but it’s no longer the truth.
I check into a separate room and fly out the next day.
“In Method acting, you can’t have preconceived ideas. You have to live in the moment. You have to keep yourself open.”—Dennis Hopper
Mila
Hollywood doesn’t respect the sanctity of marriage.
To me, that statement was always a cop-out. I never really believed that to be true because while the lifestyle is a worthy adversary to the fairy tale ending it often promotes; ultimately, it’s the people, its inhabitants, who make the life-altering decisions.
But maybe its influence is the most destructive because all I know is that in the past few hours, everything has changed and all due to the fact that my husband has been pulled heavily under.
It’s not the night I spent sobbing in the hotel room without a single word from Lucas, or the plane ride home that made me feel more alone than I’ve felt in years. It isn’t the mundane task of driving through traffic. It’s a simple errand that’s changed my mind. That combined with the fact that I’ve done everything in my power since I arrived back in LA to avoid the route back to a life I no longer believe is mine.
I stop at the light clicking my signal to turn on the road that leads home, to the place I once considered our safe haven. Where nothing outside the walls could touch us, the house itself a representation of what we built on faith. I have to leave him, of that I’m sure, at least until the film wraps. The more I pressure him to come back to me, the more damage is done to our relationship, which at this point, is nonexistent. But when a horn sounds behind me, I can’t bring myself to turn.
“Dame! Come here!” Lucas shouts from the bedroom. Running through the cottage, I see he’s still wrapped up in the sheet from our morning tussle, his laptop open. Crashing into him, I hear his grunt as I wrap myself around him. “Yes, husband?”
His voice is muffled as he tries to speak around me. “This laptop is expensive.” Rolling my eyes, I move to sit. He lifts up, opening his legs to straddle me, propping the computer on my lap.
“It’s beautiful. Whose is it?”
“Ours. It’s your anniversary present,” he says, flipping through the pictures the realtor sent. We’ve been holing up in my parents’ cottage and know we will eventually outgrow it. Though Lucas insisted on giving my parents well over the market value and kept it titled to them, for privacy and so my mother didn’t have a say. They had been thrilled with the additional income and even more thrilled that we wanted to keep it in the family because it was their only goal. We’d been looking for the last few months for something to make our own since we planned on having a family, but the cottage was our end game. Because of my love for my childhood home, Lucas vowed we would come back when our children were grown and live out the rest of our days here, old and wrinkled and just as happy. He said it made sense, and he was a believer of coming full circle. He said we’d be starting out at our finish line. I loved the idea of it.
“Look at the views,” he says, his breath hitting my neck as I actively scroll.
I’m wowed. “Oh, God, we could set up a table here and eat every night.”
“And this master,” he says, with a healthy amount of dream in his voice.
“This is just dreaming, right?” I toss a look over my shoulder. “This is a mansion.”
“No, beauty, I want this for us.”
“Lucas, I can’t afford to pay half that mortgage.”