of us, our happiness, our life together. He lived for everyone but himself. He lived for them, and they turned on him. They ruined him. God,” she wipes her hand down her face, “why, why did he do it now? It doesn’t make any sense. If he needed me, I would’ve come running. I was already there. I was still so in love with him. I still am.” She lets out a guttural sob and sinks where she stands as I go to her, throwing my arms around her and erasing the distance of the last few years of our friendship. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper as she collapses on me. “I’m so, so, sorry, Amanda.” I do the only thing that feels right in this fucked-up situation, I cry with her.
Numb and thoroughly exhausted from consoling Amanda, I drive home determined to keep my vows to my husband. If he’s sick in grief, then I’ll help him figure out a cure. As selfish as the thought is, I don’t ever want to end up in Amanda’s shoes. I know my husband. I don’t doubt that. But he’s just as susceptible of falling victim to his career. The thought has me speeding to our driveway, running up the pavers and through our front door.
“Lucas?” I’m brought to a halt when I hear the screech of his guitar.
Right after we were married, Lucas had played a rock star and had spent months prepping for the part, mastering the instrument. It was one of the roles he’d lost himself in, and that amazing effort got him his first real taste of stardom. His picture was everywhere. There was even some Oscar buzz though he wasn’t nominated. He regularly played, more so when he was prepping for a role. He said it put him in a sort of meditative state. He is better now than he was when he filmed the movie. If the man weren’t one of the best contributors to cinema, he would make an awesome rock star. Blake played as well, and they used to jam regularly when they worked together.
Following the sound of the strings, I find him on our balcony bathed in the half-light of the moon with his amp attached, his guitar howling out Smashing Pumpkin’s “Bullet with Butterfly Wings.” I can’t help the light laughter that bubbles out of me as he serenades the beach and the surrounding houses with no shits given. But it’s the sight of him shirtless, in well-fitting jeans and bare feet that has my tongue going dry. Head bent, his dark hair naturally falls across his forehead while he bites his lip, running in his own perfect time along with the bass and drums. It’s chaotic but sounds incredible. I stand in awe of him and just watch. As he mouths the words, I see something take shape, something that looks like anger.
It takes the better half of the song for him to see me standing there and when he does, I’m slapped breathless with the intensity of his gaze. As if on cue, I get a flash of brilliant white teeth. He’d had them capped just after we met because according to the powers that be, they were too small. They weren’t “movie star” teeth. It was the only unnatural thing about him, but you could never tell. I still hated it. I hated everything the industry tried to change about my husband. I didn’t want them having any more than the time they paid him handsomely for. I was becoming resentful of how much they took from us, and it was apparent he was beginning to feel the same way. And now with Blake’s passing, and the state of Amanda and her words, I was more fearful than ever that one day they may take too much of him.
Lucas’s smile fades marginally as he reads the sadness in my posture and observes me carefully for a few seconds before he turns his back to me, facing the ocean while never missing a note.
Tamping down my hurt to his indifference, I realize I have a decision to make. Fight or fuck. I choose neither, drawing a hot bath before going to sleep alone.
“There’s a fine line between the Method actor and the schizophrenic.”—Nicolas Cage
Mila
PRESENT
Pulling up to the inn, I move to gather my things but sit idle in my Range Rover when I hear Lucas’s name mentioned on the morning show.