METHOD

by Kate Stewart

  “Did you get your manners from your mother as well?”

  “Absolutely,” I answer unapologetically.

  His eyes narrow a fraction. “I want to take you out, yes, but I would like an education about wine.”

  “It would never work, Lucas.” I sigh dramatically. “You clearly hate wine.”

  “I could learn to love it,” he says with a lift to his voice.

  I snort sarcastically. “And will this be your very first date?”

  He scowls. “Just the tasting then, no date. Something tells me you are trouble.”

  “That’s fine because I’m not allowed to date actors anyway. Mom’s rules.”

  He quirks a perfect dark brow. “Aren’t you old enough to avoid obeying Mom?”

  “You haven’t met my mother.” Renewed energy races through me when he takes the hand wrapped around my purse. It’s as if he couldn’t wait to know what it might be like to touch me. His warm hand encases mine. We both feel it, the jolt, I can see it in his eyes. His satisfied smirk lets me know I’m unable to hide my own reaction and he weighs it, scrutinizing the part of my lips. We stand there, simply staring until he finally speaks, his voice full of surety when it cuts through the silence.

  “I’ll get your info from the host.”

  I nod. “That’s fine. It’s a date.”

  “It’s not a date,” he says assuredly, before brushing his thumb across my wrist and then letting go.

  “Right.” We linger, both reluctant to leave but unsure of what to say. The connection makes me ache in the best imaginable way. I’m in a daydream, standing in front of one of the rising kings of Hollywood. It’s a memory I’ll relive over and over even if he doesn’t call. Without thinking it through, I push up on my toes and kiss his cheek, inhaling his scent, enjoying the sensation of my lips against the light stubble on his jaw. “It was nice meeting you. Goodnight, Lucas.”

  He leans in to reciprocate, pressing his full lips to my cheek, and my senses explode. My entire body shudders in awareness when he pulls away, his long lashes flit over his cheeks as his hooded eyes rise to meet mine. “I’ll bring the Yoohoo.”

  “Ew.”

  We share a laugh before he opens the door for me. Descending the grand steps, I resist the urge to look back, but I can sense his eyes on me.

  An hour later, I’m still in my car when I get a notification on my phone.

  Yazoo Alert: Lucas Walker and his girlfriend Laura Lee have decided to call it quits, stating the break was amicable and they remain friends.

  The gravity of the alert’s timing keeps me staring at the screen in shock. Surely it had nothing to do with me. Still high from our exchange, nervous laughter bursts out of me as his first text comes through.

  Unknown: Are you free tomorrow?

  Lucas

  FOUR MONTHS AGO

  I pull into the Beverly Hills Hotel and toss my keys to the valet with a quick thanks before making my way toward Bar Nineteen. I’m early for my meeting with Wes, and I just want to have a cocktail to take the edge off before we go through the details. I take a seat in a wicker chair on the patio that overlooks a little greenery, the pool, and the parking lot. The ancient hotel is still a stomping ground for the elite, and while I’ve only had one other meeting here, I detect the echo of Maddie’s presence every time I walk through the doors.

  “Again.”

  “I’m tired.” I know I’m whining, which Maddie says isn’t a desired trait of a good actor, but we’ve been doing it for hours.

  “Doesn’t matter. Your feelings don’t matter. It’s the feelings of your character you need to focus on,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You need more stamina. You’ll be on set day and night. You want stamina, don’t you?” She looks down at me with wide eyes, the mole she colors above her eyebrow smeared due to the heat in her tin trailer. I’m burning up and feel like I’m going to fall asleep.

  “Do you have any more of those burritos?” I ask, hopeful as she stares down at me with the look my mom gives when she says she’s had enough of my shit. Maddie’s been watching me after school so Mom can work her shift at the gas station. She’s been keeping me fed ever since I saw her first movie and agreed to run lines with her. I can’t believe the same lady on the screen is the same woman who babysits me. But I can tell if I look really hard.

  I told Maddie I never had a grandma before, and she told me I never will. She said she had no children for a reason and that reason is because she never wants the word grandma associated with her. I don’t know what that means, but she didn’t think it was funny when I joked and called her my grandma. She says someone from the studio is going to call her in someday, and she wants to stay sharp and focused, and that’s where I come in. She says I’m her godsend. I sure wish she would feed her godsend. My stomach has been rumbling since I got home from school and I know I’ll be lucky if there’s some bread ends to stuff my face with when I get back. I always eat the ends, so Mom doesn’t get mad. But Maddie usually heats up a frozen burrito in the microwave before we rehearse. Today she didn’t, and my stomach feels like it’s eating me from the inside out. All I can think about is that burrito.

  “I’m out of burritos,” she barks. “Again, Lucas.”

  “Sure you don’t have one?” I ask. I hate begging, but I’m hungry all the time. Mom feeds me breakfast sometimes, and dinner, but I can’t get enough to eat lately.

  Maddie smiles as if she’s not mad anymore and walks over to her fridge before taking out a container of bright orange juice and setting it on the counter. She pulls a glass from the sink with faded yellow flowers painted on it and fills it up.

  I wrinkle my nose at the glass as she thrusts it in my face. “What is this?”

  “The essence of life, boy, carrot juice. It will keep you trim if you’re going to land the lead. It keeps you young too.”

  I can’t help but think it’s not working well for her as I down the juice while trying not to throw up at the taste. She tosses a pack of peanut butter crackers on the counter and I dig in, inhaling them with a mumbled, “thank you.” Maddie said I have charisma and that’s something you’re born with. She says stars aren’t born, they’re shaped, and that’s what she’s going to do for me. I’m going to be a big star. Sometimes I still can’t believe she was in four movies before she married ‘that bastard Reginald’ and he ruined her life.

  “Don’t ever compromise your dreams for anyone or anything, Lucas. Life won’t cooperate with you if you do.”

  “Lucas,” I hear Wes call as he approaches the table. I lift the carrot juice to my mouth and take a drink knowing damn well my wandering thoughts screwed me out of my cocktail. I must have ordered while I was somewhere in the past. It’s a curse and a gift how I get so easily involved in my thoughts.

  “Wes,” I greet, offering my hand. We shake as he takes the seat in front of me.

  “This is supposed to be a real drink,” I say, tilting my empty glass before nodding toward the waitress. “Is this good or do you want somewhere more private?”

  He glances around the sparsely-filled bar. “This is good. How have you been?”

  I shrug. “Shit week.”

  Wes is a hundred years old. I don’t think anyone but Wikipedia knows how old he is at this point. They seem to be the only ones who pay attention, but he doesn’t look a day over sixty. Directors with budgets and an extensive list of hits like Wes don’t ever age out of Hollywood. It’s a supreme edge. Not to mention his wife dresses him in a wardrobe that keeps him looking sharp. I like his wife better than I like him, but we have a mutual respect for each other after our last film together. Two more hits to add to his long ass reel, pun intended.

  “I was sorry to hear about Blake.”

  I nod because words don’t mean shit. Wes’s certainly don’t. My silence intimates the subject isn’t up for discussion and it’s dropped.

  He orders us both a beer and turns back to me with the twelve million-dollar question. “What did you think of the sc
ript?”

  I lean forward. “I fucking loved it.”

  He gives me a sincere smile. “You up for it?”

  “Definitely. I’m good with the terms, but I’m more interested in how you want to film it.”

  For the next two hours, we shoot ideas back and forth, both visibly becoming more enthusiastic as the minutes pass, recognizing what he’s envisioned is the same as the picture I drew while reading the script.

  It only takes another few minutes of details to seal it.

  The part is mine. It will be my sixteenth movie, my tenth lead, and it’s going to be the most grueling role of my career.

  As I walk back to the valet, I can’t help but smile at the memory of my mentor and hope she’d be proud.

  “I’ve hit my stride, Maddie.” Somewhere in the back of my mind, I can hear her distant voice.

  “Good job, boy.”

  Mila

  I flip between stations as another news anchor discloses more grim details of the scene at Blake’s apartment the day he took his life. The autopsy report was released earlier this morning revealing Blake didn’t have a trace of drugs or alcohol in his system and speculation has run rampant.

  “Police say there was no note and his wedding ring was found sitting on the edge of his desk. Blake is survived by his estranged mother, Jennifer Helms, who was present at the funeral along with his ex-wife Amanda George, a former co-star who played Katrina Dobbs in the sitcom, Buzzed. The two former child actors rekindled their friendship at West’s movie premiere seven years ago, and they were married just three months later at a small ceremony in Carmel. Lucas Walker had been in attendance with his girlfriend at the time, Laura Lee.”

  Though they paint Lucas and me as a glorious picture, Entertainment News is always quick to remind me that I’m not the high-profile actress that Lucas was supposed to marry. The longer the report goes on, the more I know they’re reaching for reasoning.

  “Lucas Walker has yet to make a statement on the death of his longtime friend.”

  Clicking off the TV with the remote, I find myself thankful Lucas is preoccupied. At the same time, I dread his reaction to the news. I can only imagine how Amanda must be feeling. We spent a lot of time with them when Lucas and I first got together. They’d been married for a little over a year and seemed smitten. I didn’t get a chance to talk to Amanda during his funeral. Picking up my cell, I make my way to our bedroom terrace. The call goes to voice mail, and as I start to leave a message, I see her name light up on the screen returning my call and accept it.

  I forgo a typical greeting. “Amanda, I’m so sorry.”

  “We were happy, weren’t we? When we were together? We were happy?” she asks tearfully.

  “Yes, you were.”

  “I thought so. And then he just…”

  “What?” I prompt out of curiosity. When they divorced a year ago, I’d never gotten the real story from either of them, and I hadn’t pressed for it. I’d tried on several occasions to reach Amanda, but she’d withdrawn, completely heartbroken. She and Blake had that in common.

  “What happened?”

  “He just…changed. I think he got depressed. He was so busy worrying about keeping up…” she cuts herself off.

  “Keeping up with Lucas?”

  “I think so. He never said it, but I know he was embarrassed about the way things turned out. Eventually, it got to the point where he had to stop making excuses. I could never say that out loud, until now.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “I just don’t understand why he would do this. We were in the midst of working things out.”

  This shocks me. “You were thinking about getting back together?”

  “Yes, no, I don’t know, maybe,” she sobs. “Things were turning around for him, I think. He was up for this part, and he was so excited. I don’t understand.”

  Her cries echo over the phone and my eyes well up and spill over. I can physically feel her pain over the line. “I wish I knew what to say.”

  “Nothing to say. I’m just glad you called.” She sniffs. “You know, his bitch mother was fine with arranging the funeral, but she’s refusing to help with anything else. His landlord called me. Tomorrow I have to go clean out his apartment and box up his things. How am I going to do this, Mila?”

  “I’ll help,” I offer. “I’ll be there, okay? Just text me, and I’ll meet you.”

  “Okay,” she replies quickly, gratitude in her tone. “Do you think Lucas will come?” she asks hopefully. “I want to talk to him.”

  I bite my lip looking over my shoulder to make sure he’s still not home from his meeting with Wes. “He’s not in a good place right now, Amanda,” I say thoughtfully. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. I know that seems selfish, but is it okay if I don’t tell him I’m coming?”

  “It’s fine. I get it, I do. Blake really loved him, you know?”

  “I know. Lucas felt the same.”

  “What happened to our guys? They were so close. We all were. What happened to us?”

  I didn’t know how to answer that, so I tell her the truth. “I don’t know.”

  “This is so fucked up.”

  An image of Blake flashes through my head and the guilt begins to feed. “I know.”

  “I just want to get this over with, leave LA for a while. I need to get out of here.” Her tearful voice lifts. “Okay, so I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “Yes,” I assure her. “I’ll be there. I swear it.”

  “Thank you, Mila, for calling, for everything because I know you mean it. I’m so disgusted with these assholes acting like family with their words of comfort after the fact. Like where the fuck were they when Blake needed a friend?” Realization dawns tangling my gut in knots, and it occurs to me then that we hadn’t seen Blake in several months before he died, maybe longer. Lucas probably doesn’t feel like he’s allowed to grieve. He’ll feel like a hypocrite calling himself a friend.

  I can’t help but think my husband might be the very person Amanda’s just described and that’s why he refuses to release a statement.

  “Shit,” I whisper.

  “What?” Amanda asks anxiously. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m just worried.”

  “About Lucas?”

  “Yes, and you. Text me when you get to Blake’s, and I’ll head over, okay?”

  “I will.”

  Mila

  “Baby, where are you?”

  He doesn’t know about the results of Blake’s autopsy.

  I can tell by his tone. He’s optimistic which means he had a good meeting, which also means things are about to change for us.

  I don’t know why I’m so wary, but I’m sure it’s largely in part to the fact that it’s too soon. We’d just buried Blake. I needed to have more faith and trust his judgment.

  “In the kitchen,” I call out, folding egg whites into my mixture. He walks in and sees the evidence of my labor as I drink him in. A thin cream V-neck sweater outlines his muscular frame and hangs over a pair of dark jeans. His thick, black hair is swept away from his face and styled carelessly, his sunglasses perched on top. Tiny laugh lines crease around amused eyes that roam me. My hair is loosely tied up and I know I’m covered in powdered sugar. I’m a messy baker, but I’ve run out of carpet to pace in our expansive beach house, and I needed something to do to keep busy. The whole situation is exhausting, and I hate that I’m a slave to indecisiveness when it comes to Lucas for the time being and even more so, I hate feeling useless.

  So, you bake a fucking cake, Mila?

  Inwardly, I roll my eyes at my own efforts. He doesn’t miss it.

  “What’s that look for?” he asks, dipping his finger into the dark chocolate batter before sucking it into his mouth.

  “How did your meeting go?”

  “Don’t change the subject,” he scorns. “Tell me.”

  I wipe my hands on a towel. “This is no occasion for cake,” I say, defeated.

  He
circles the island and puts his chin on my shoulder. “Did you do it to make me happy?”

  I nod.

  “Then it’s an occasion for cake.”

  “I’m selfish. I just want you to be okay. A cake won’t help that.”

  “You’re appreciated, Dame.” He slides his arms around me and squeezes before stepping away to grab some water from the fridge. The oven sounds letting me know it’s pre-heated just as I pour the batter into the waiting pan. “How did it go?”

  “Good, we’re on the same page. I see what he sees.” He pokes his head out from behind the stainless-steel door. “Did you read it?”

  I tense because I haven’t. A part of me doesn’t want to and thinks I’m better off not knowing. In the past, I’d been intrigued as he got into character. Slowly and subtly while he immersed himself, I began to pick up on the tics, the new habits, the character change, and was fascinated by his brilliance.

  “Not yet.” Pulling the oven open, I slide the cake in.

  When we first got together, I had no idea what to expect daily. I assumed we’d live our lives jet-setting, and some of the time, we did. I didn’t care much for it because I’d already been to most of the places on my bucket list. But our life as of late has been a lot of the opposite. Lucas said one of his biggest turn-ons about me was that I cooked and that I was a homebody. He enjoyed the routine of having a dinnertime when he wasn’t filming and loved eating on our patio overlooking the ocean. And I know I’m right to assume it’s because he never had that kind of family atmosphere growing up. We do attend the necessary parties—the Oscars, the Globes, and the film festivals. For the most part, we have a pretty mundane home life that I’m more comfortable with and that he seems to thrive in. Often, his work can be grueling, his schedule exasperating which at times made us threadbare. I stopped working three years after we got married only taking local odd jobs to be at his side, knowing I could resume it at any point when I got bored, and I was getting there. My sense of self could never come second to his career and I’ve made that clear, but I can’t say I haven’t enjoyed the extended vacation.