with a baby coming.” He towers above me at six foot two to my five-five. Looking up, I see the contempt I was looking for when I announced I wanted to go back to work.
“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