by Kate Stewart
“I love wine.” We share a smile as he takes a sip and I watch his reaction, which is typical. We drink in the setting sun peeking through a small patch of cotton clouds in silence, admiring the day’s end.
I take another sip, letting the grapes ferment on my tongue before I swallow it down and break the silence. “It’s good, isn’t it?”
We both know I’m not asking about the wine.
“It’s fucking incredible,” he says, taking his seat in the chair next to mine. “I’m almost certain he’s shooting in sequence.”
Wes is one of a few Hollywood directors that shoots the scenes in order from beginning to end. It’s the perfect setup for a Method actor like my husband because it helps his evolvement. Inside, I’m screaming, but I don’t let on I’m terrified of what he may evolve into. The argument will be futile anyway. He’s only taken on a few roles that require this much dedication and those had been taxing on our relationship. But we’d made it through, and the results were phenomenal, earning him his first Golden Globe, which Mother made sure to be present for as a former press member.
The hypocrite.
Still, it means I’ll lose him for the time it takes to prep and shoot, and he’s quiet because he can’t assure me of anything. I signed up for it. I decide to hold any objections until I’ve read the script myself, but I already know it’s too late.
“So, I can read it?” I say, standing, all too eager to see what we’re up against.
“Not yet,” he says, pulling me to sit between his legs on the comfortable deck chair. I lie back with my head resting on his collarbone. We sink into each other, relaxing as the tide pulls sand away from the shore. To our right, the Santa Monica pier bursts to life in violet and blue in contrast with the darkening sky.
“Tell me,” I whisper.
“This is the one. It’s what I’ve been waiting for and feels original. I mean it’s a bit cliché in the rags to riches aspect, but you know I can identify with that and use it. But there’s a lot I can’t. You’ll see when you read.”
I nod. “How bad was he?”
His momentary silence speaks volumes. “Pretty fucking bad. Unpredictable, volatile, he had an insatiable taste for blood and vengeance. He was a closet heroin addict and a womanizer.”
Sarcasm coats my voice. “Sounds awesome, honey.”
We share a laugh as my chest sinks. Lucas takes the glass from my hand and sets it on the table before wrapping soothing arms around me. “It’s the role of a lifetime,” he murmurs as his hands cover me in a gentle caress. “The Scarface of the twenty-first century. I’ve got to go all in. And with the timeframe and the amount of prep I have to do, it’s going to be grueling. I’ll have to isolate a lot, and I don’t want you to take it personally.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask, knowing the answer.
“If the meeting with Wes goes like I think it will, it’s going to go fast.”
“Okay.” He tenses behind me, and I know he heard my hesitation.
“Please, Mila, let me have this. I need you with me. You don’t pass on something like this. And I managed to fall in second place, so I have a lot to prove.” He moves my hair out of the way and presses a soft kiss against my neck while dread settles in my belly. “I’ll make this up to you.”
I squeeze his thigh. “I know.”
Mila
PRESENT
Lucas: You called a fucking lawyer? We have to talk, Mila. Now. Please talk to me.
Mila: I can’t trust you anymore. What am I supposed to do with that? You threw six years of marriage in the trash. Hope it was worth it.
Lucas: It wasn’t me who hurt you.
Mila: I don’t accept that. I refuse to accept that. I hate you for saying it.
Lucas: Tell me what you want me to say. Tell me what to do.
Mila: I can’t look at you. I can’t trust you. I don’t even know who I’m talking to anymore.
Lucas: It’s me. I’m here, Dame.
Mila: I’m sorry, I don’t believe you. Not anymore.
Setting my phone down, I give myself time to reason with my anger and fail. The longer I’m away from him, the more I remember, the madder I become. I’m too upset, too furious to be a reasonable adult. I’m bloodthirsty, and no good can come of that. I need space to sort through the wreckage of the past month. I called a lawyer yesterday morning out of anger, and I have no idea how Lucas got wind of it. It was just a quick phone consult and wasn’t anything I was fully considering. Hurt can cause anger to make decisions, that’s the one I made before battling a thousand other emotions. I can’t face this yet, and I deserve the space to figure it out. But when I retrieve my phone and read his text, I panic.
Lucas: Please, baby, please don’t file. I’m coming over. I’m on my way.
Mila: I won’t be here.
Scrambling to the car, I manage to make it to the end of the driveway when he pulls up in his Land Rover, the large SUV blocking my escape. I lock my doors and keep my window cracked while continually shaking my head as he approaches my window. Keeping my eyes fixed on the steering wheel, unease snakes around me while he lingers at my door. It’s fear that tightens in my chest, and he reads my posture easily.
“Mila, I would never hurt you.”
“Now who’s the liar?”
“Please talk to me.”
“Don’t do this, Lucas, I’m not ready to talk. I’m too angry.”
“Just tell me what to say.”
I turn accusing eyes in his direction. “Don’t have a script for this? How unfortunate.”
Devastation twists his features. He’s wrecked, his eyes red-rimmed and beneath lay dark circles. He looks just as tormented as I feel, his jaw covered in stubble, his clothes wrinkled, hair disheveled. Even in this state, he’s beautiful, hauntingly so. He lays his hands on the glass, and I jerk my chin. “I swear to God, Lucas, if you don’t let me out right now, I’ll be done. We will be done.” I crumble in my seat begging for a reprieve from the hurt his proximity causes, but it’s not my wedge to remove, and it’s his debris I can’t see through.
“This isn’t healthy. Can’t you see what you’re doing to me!?” Gentle eyes rove over me before they helplessly flash back up to meet mine.
“Dame,” he murmurs apologetically, studying my face, a face ravaged with the same hurt, and the added bonus of betrayal. Recognition crosses his features as he realizes the true extent of the damage he’s done. There’s no way in. Not now, not today, anyway. Taking a step back, he covers his mouth with his palm before pulling it away. “Please, please, just talk to me.”
“I can’t,” I say, “Please, just leave me alone.”
Seconds tick by and I sense his probing gaze on me as I furiously wipe at my tears. Lifting my chin, I toss a glare his way. “I hate you for what you’ve done to us,” He flinches as if I’ve just struck him. “I hate you for what you did,” I declare vehemently. “You can’t take it back. You made a fool out of me.”
His eyes water as he palms his forehead in frustration. “That’s not what it was about.”
“No?” I tilt my head. “Well, that’s all I can see, feel, taste, and it’s bitter. It’s not going anywhere. You need to give me space.”
“Okay, just, please…don’t do anything. Don’t…” He can’t even say the words and we both break at the thought, our faces collectively crumbling. He hangs his head for an excruciating heartbeat, then looks over at me with remorse. “I’ll do anything.”
“You should have done anything then. But I wasn’t important enough, even after all we’ve built you couldn’t trust me.” Wiping my nose with my sleeve, burning tears escape as I glare over at him. “I’ve never made you feel that way. I would never hurt you that way…God, Lucas…just leave.”
“I’m drowning without you.” His voice rips, jagged and cutting, penetrating my aching chest. But it’s the anger that wins.
“No, you threw yourself in the deep end,” I reply lifelessly, “and you took me with
you.”
A shuddered breath leaves him, but I don’t acknowledge the hurt I’m causing. Resentment is navigating my every move and I’m letting it drive.
Reluctant resignation coats his tone. “Okay, okay. Just…please remember, Dame, remember.”
Agonizing heartbeats later, he starts his SUV and leaves, and I do too, determined to put some space between us I know he won’t allow. He’s conceded for now, but it’s only a matter of time before he comes back. In minutes, I’m on the highway, mind racing. He wants forgiveness, but I can’t find it sorting through his actions of the past few months. He wants mercy where he gave none. It’s hypocritical, and it infuriates me. We’ve become the sum of all my fears when going into this relationship and as much as I want to take some blame, anger keeps winning.
But this? I never saw this, I never thought him capable of hurting me to this degree. But it just goes to show what an amazing performer he is. I can’t even tell truth from fiction anymore. I’m not even sure how much of our story was a lie and that’s the thing that angers me most.
My husband is an expert chameleon. He slips into a newly colored skin with such ease, you’re blindsided by the completion of it and are only able to admire his new color briefly before he slips into another.
The first time he showed me one of his colors was the night we met. I’d been hired to steward at a star-studded dinner at a director’s house. It was a dinner & movie tribute to Francis Ford Coppola, and I’d been hired to pair his wines with the dishes served. Earlier that week I’d toured the legendary director’s winery, and by the time I left Geyserville, I had a vast knowledge of his selection. There would be a screening of his film Apocalypse Now in a large courtyard adjacent to the dining room after a six-course dinner.
Despite my mother’s best attempts to keep me away from the business, it was only a matter of time before my line of work intermixed with the industry. No average, blue-collar Joe can afford to throw these types of parties. Sommeliers weren’t in high demand, and I anxiously took almost every job offered.
I spent most of the night pouring wine while telling anecdotes and history about each selection. The first time I get an up-close view of Lucas, Marlon Brando is mid-tirade on the large screen spanning a good width of the courtyard as Lucas is spitting out a mouthful of pinot noir from Coppola’s Diamond collection into some shrubbery. While the majority of the party is rapt on the movie, sitting in the comfortable lounge chairs provided, Lucas is isolated in the back, leaning against a wall across from a small, free-standing bar, looking bored and mildly uncomfortable.
I have to fight laughter when I see him dispose of his wine and damn near go into hysterics when he cocks his head left and right before tossing the rest of the contents of his glass in the same direction. It takes everything I have to keep a straight face when I approach him, presenting him with a bottle of the wine he’d just tossed out like garbage. We’re covered in shadows, the flickering movie the only thing shedding light across our faces.
“You know, pinot grapes are really hard to grow,” I whisper as he eyes the wine in my hand, apprehension flitting a split-second over his features before it disappears, and he reluctantly holds his empty glass out to me. I’d been watching him for the better part of the night. He’d played it cool as new Hollywood, often stealing the room with his presence. I’m not the only woman having an impossible time taking my eyes off him dressed in a well-fitted Armani tuxedo and silky black tie. “They have thin skin and are disease prone.”
“I’m sorry, what?” he asks distractedly as he sloshes it around in his glass before taking a whiff, his eyes finally drifting up to meet mine.
“Not a fan of the pinot?” I ask, biting back a smile. It’s when our eyes hold that the air starts to thicken.
“I love wine,” he says, fixed in our stare a beat longer before his lips lift at the corners.
“Do you?” I ask, my insides coming to life. In our locked gaze, I notice he loses himself a little as well. Explorative eyes rake me, undressing me, and robbing my throat of any moisture. Utterly dazed, I hold my breath until he speaks.
“Have you been here all night?”
My smile widens as his grows and we drink in each other in the greenery-filled courtyard. The night breeze whispers over us and goose bumps erupt over my skin while our silent stare-off ensues. I’m in a black halter dress that hugs my curves and flows over my hips. It’s elegant and understated and the perfect dress for a night like this. My lips are colored merlot, just as fitting, but underneath his penetrating gaze, I feel naked and worshipped.
“Yes, I’ve been here all night.”
“Bullshit,” he counters, leaning in conspiratorially. “I would have noticed you.”
He sloshes his wine again, and I frown. “Do you know why you’re doing that?”
“Doing what?” he asks, gracing me with another breathtaking smile. I find myself stunned by the sight of it but manage to find words.
“Sloshing the wine around and murdering the bouquet?”
“I’m not sloshing.”
“You’re sloshing. Now,” I say, taking his glass and gently demonstrating. “Swirling the glass draws oxygen into the wine to offset the tannic acids which make it taste dry.” I hand the glass back to him. “Now take a sip and let it briefly rest on your tongue before swallowing.”
Never taking his eyes off me, he does just that. “Delicious.”
“Is it?”
He narrows his eyes. “You saw me toss it.” It’s not a question.
“Yes, and as a representative tonight of Mr. Coppola, I’m appalled.”
“And you are?”
“Mila.”
“Mila,” he repeats, “Lucas.”
“Nice to meet you, Lucas. I’m a fan.”
He wrinkles his nose. “Are you a fan of my movies, like I’m a fan of wine?”
“No.” I laugh. “I’m being honest.”
“Yeah, well, now I’m embarrassed.”
I lean in because I can’t help myself. “You shouldn’t be embarrassed about that.”
“No?” he whispers as the air crackles between us, he inches forward, and we get close to indecent in what little space we have left.
“No, you should be embarrassed that you’re pouring it on my shoes.”
“Oh, shit, sorry,” he says with a chuckle before setting the glass down on a nearby oak barrel before looking back to me. I can’t help it then, I burst out laughing.
He shakes his head. “You know you’re partly to blame, you’re distracting.”
“Oh? I’m to blame for the abuse?”
“Absolutely.”
“You really hate wine?”
He shrugs. “Honestly? No offense to Mr. Coppola but I’m only here because I’ve been strong-armed into coming. So, no, I’m not a wine enthusiast.” He juts his chin toward the party, sliding his hands in his pockets. “My friend is somewhere around here trying to schmooze. You want honesty? I’d rather be home drinking a Yoohoo.”
This time, I crinkle my nose. “Now that’s disgusting.”
“Chocolate wine of the south,” he says, adding a little accent for emphasis.
“Impressive.”
“Only if it’s ice-cold and you hold your nose,” he says matter of fact.
I laugh again and am hesitant to pull away from our exchange. “Well, it was nice to meet you, Lucas, and shame on you for not noticing me.”
“Yes, I admit that was really stupid,” he says in a tone that has chills racing up my spine.
“Forgiven,” I say with a wink, “but be nice to the wine, okay?”
“Sure thing, Mila,” he whispers, with a lopsided grin.
He’s still got his hands in his pockets, and I’m utterly lost as I stand there ogling him with a bottle full of wine, empty glasses calling, and a job to do. I want to freeze time and just be able to look at him, but the moment has long passed, so I turn and walk back toward the crowd perched in front of the screen. Adrenaline peaks
as I spend the night recounting the way it felt to be in his presence, to be admired by him. As the night goes on, I slowly deflate when I spot him talking to others amongst the party, particularly a handsy woman who can’t seem to stop touching his chest. I decide that inkling I felt was probably a product of my starry-eyed imagination. Actors are well-known for having consuming presences, it’s what makes them stars.
It’s only when I’m grabbing my things to leave that I see him again. I’m halfway to the front door when he emerges from one of the parlor rooms next to it. A slew of voices still carries from the courtyard, but my job is done, and I’m too exhausted to cater to any lingerers.
“Mila.”
I grin at the sound of his voice behind me. “Did you finally discover wine is your friend?” Turning his way, I’m struck with the same overpowering inkling.
“No, actually, I was hoping for a private tasting,” he whispers seductively.
“Ew,” I say, scrunching my nose as I slide my purse over my shoulder.
“Ew?” he repeats with a frown.
“Yeah, ew. Really, Lucas?”
“Shit,” he says, palming his forehead. “I didn’t mean it the way it came out.” I can’t help but laugh. I can tell he’s buzzed. He looks over at me helplessly, and I give into the pull, folding my jacket over my arm and taking a step back toward him. “Want to try again?”
“I was hoping you would teach me about wine privately.”
“Better, but it lacks romance. Is this a date you’re asking me on?”
“Wow.” He stalks forward, pinning me in the short space between him and the door. “First,” he says roughly, “you shouldn’t cut a man’s balls off and dangle them in front of him when he’s doing his best to ask you out. It’s not nice.”
“Sorry, French mother, we’ve been oppressing men since…forever. Then again, it may not have anything to do with being French, it may just be my mother.”
He grins, inching closer and everything inside draws tight. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this type of pull. I can’t decipher if it’s because he’s Lucas Walker or due to how incredibly handsome he is, but I assume it’s probably a mix of both.