for an answer, I bat away the sick feeling washing over me, summoning the rest of my fight.
“Lucas,” I whisper, lifting my hand to his jaw. He jerks away from my touch, gripping my wrist and setting it between us.
“I just don’t want you to regret me.” His eyes finally drift to mine resolute, and that’s when the glass bursts.
Unimaginably shattered, I visibly crumble in front of him as he stares at me. I’m out of words, all of them falling away due to the jagged edges rustling inside my chest. Anger trumps hurt in those seconds and I embrace it.
“You’re a coward. And this, this right here, is the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.” I sob, and he flinches the minute it fills the cabin of his Land Rover. Jumping out, I begin to shake uncontrollably at the anger coursing through me and the pain racing to catch up, not far behind. Lit up in his headlights, I slam my purse on his hood, livid, and meet his eyes through the glass. He watches me intently, and I can see his remorse, but my mind is also made up. “I regret you already, Hollywood!” I spout, not from the heart, but from the silver tongue my mother graced me with. “Don’t give me a second thought.”
If he’s this clueless about my love for him, maybe he’s right, he’s a stupid fucking man. Stomping toward my porch, I let out a mewled cry just before I slam the door behind me, locking it and tossing my purse in the hall. I don’t even make it a step in before I slink down to the hardwood floor. For endless minutes I sit there, counting our days and nights together, crying my eyes out, unable to breathe, think, move.
All of the time he spent convincing me that we were real, wasted.
But I’d been so sure this time. I’d let him sweep me into the whirlwind, but never let my feet leave the ground until I was certain. And now it was far too late. My heart had memorized his, matched his rhythm and synced, declaring itself loyal.
It will never be the same.
I will never be the same.
Never again.
“There’s a point in time in your life where you think was I happy, or was I just not aware?”—Philip Seymour Hoffman
Lucas
ONE MONTH AGO
Stagnant air recycles in the trailer as I light a cigarette to accompany my drink, taking a long sip of the stout liquid while I watch the old reel on my laptop screen. Maddie tosses a withering look at her opponent before spewing venomous lines. I take my cue, repeating them back to her with a bitter chuckle as I toss back the rest of my drink and pour another. She turns her head, the purse of her lips showing her annoyance, it’s one of her tells. And for a few seconds, I’m back in front of her.
“You think you know me? You don’t know a damned thing about me. Take your assumptions and go back to your husband.” Maddie slaps me, and I move forward and grip her chin with rough fingers. “You need to leave, Mary, right now, before I throw you out of here.”
“I’m sorry,” she whimpers as a tear falls down her cracked face. “I love you, Terrance.”
I wiggle her chin in between my fingers before I let go. “You don’t know anything about it, doll.”
Maddie straightens into her natural posture breaking the scene. “That was good, but next time you need to show more disdain with the last line. She’s been jerking your chain long enough.”
“What is disdain?”
“Another word for disgust. Go to the mirror,” she instructs. I do as I’m told and stand in front of the floor-length mirror. She watches behind me. “This isn’t a good habit to start because if you practice it this way and the director wants it another way, it can cause conflict, but we’ll do it today. Now, show me anger.”
I flare my nostrils like she taught me and press my brows together. “Good. Now tell me about something that makes you cringe.”
“I hate hot dogs. Mom boils them.” And we eat them at home practically every day.
“Good, that’s good. Now make a face to show me how bad you hate the sight of them. The smell of them as they boil.”
This time my nostrils flare, but my mouth waters at the thought and I look a little more of a mix of sick and angry.