METHOD

by Kate Stewart

  We are a team.

  Though at times my resentment grows for his station in life, not every movie star who’s made it is promised a long and prosperous career. A lot of extended success relies on behavior, ability, and relevance and there may come a time where Lucas isn’t relevant anymore. This is his window, and he has to take it. Some actors disappear overnight, fading away into the background to make room for more, while others, like Blake, implode publicly and remind us all they are complex humans who get overlooked by the movement.

  It’s been almost a month since we buried Blake and Lucas is set to start shooting in a few days. For the last few weeks since our night on the balcony, he’s been holed up in his office doing extensive research or keeping appointments with wardrobe. Nova drops by every day or so to run lines with him which hurts me because I’ve been replaced for the job. Maybe he’s giving me the freedom because I’m going back to work, and I can’t dwell on that.

  We have rules for a reason.

  It’s what I signed up for when I married Lucas. What I didn’t expect was when it came to the most compelling roles, how far he would take his absences and how much of himself he would let his characters absorb. The process for any actor who lives for their passion is taxing, but the creative isn’t the only one who has to suffer through it.

  I read somewhere that before Angelina Jolie filmed Gia, she told her then-husband that she wouldn’t be talking to him during filming because she was now a gay, dying supermodel. Nothing is off the table, nor is it a ploy for attention. Half the time, the public has no idea what these artists go through to prep and execute a character. For Method actors, what looks effortless on screen takes far longer to put together.

  When I got involved with Lucas, and he explained the process, I’d done my homework and found out plenty of actors used these insane tactics and went beyond just the basic principles.

  Adrien Brody shed thirty pounds, declared himself homeless, left his girlfriend and possessions and fled the country so he could identify with a Holocaust survivor for The Pianist.

  Heath Ledger was rumored to have isolated in a motel room for weeks to deprive himself of sleep catapulting him into a state of perpetual madness to play the Joker in The Dark Knight.

  Christian Bale has done things that borderline lunacy, and yet all of his performances have been brilliant. The list goes on and on.

  Even though I was aware of this when I took my vows, it doesn’t make the progression any less grueling. Once immersed, Lucas never breaks character, ever, for any reason.

  Pulling up to the small restaurant overlooking the Pacific, I scour the bistro and park. Striding toward the restaurant I smile when I see Yanni opening the door for me.

  Every light step I take confirms my decision to get back to work. Lucas has his passion, and I have mine, and we both get to indulge until he comes back to me in pieces, in need of the refuge he’ll seek and that I’ll offer without hesitation. And once the layers he’s so carefully cloaking himself in are peeled away, I’ll have him back. We’ll talk. We’ll work through his grief. Three months, give or take a week, and I’ll get my husband back.

  That’s showbiz.

  “Remember the rules, Dame.”

  Taking a deep breath, I let go and trust.

  Two hours later, we’ve narrowed down six selections for the menu, and I’ve just had one of the best meals of my life. Yanni kisses me goodbye on both cheeks with enthusiastic thanks, and I’m validated for all the work and research I’ve done to prep for our meeting. He doesn’t just want my suggestions; he wants me to be a more integral part of the opening and present the tasting for the investors coming in a month.

  Happily, I accept the job, far too excited to pass up the opportunity. And the paycheck is enough to have me daydreaming again about the possibility of trying my own label. Though a spend-thrift millionaire, Lucas has offered many times to buy me a spot in wine country and make my dream a reality, but the truth is, I want to be self-made.

  The drive home is much more relaxed.

  When I arrive, I find Lucas on the balcony of our bedroom, his script in his lap, slowly flipping a coin between the slots of his fingers. He’d left early this morning for a meeting, and I was surprised to see him home at this hour so close to filming. The door is open, the breeze lifting our sheer white curtains and filling the room with salty air. He’s staring out at the sea, so I don’t feel like I’m interrupting. Tossing my purse on the bed, I kick my heels off stretching my toes in the plush carpet and begin to undress.

  “Babe, I’m back. God, it was wonderful, I’m so excited. Yanni loved my ideas, and the place is perfect. I think this is going to be good for me! I’m stuffed, but I don’t mind cooking for you if you’re hungry.”

  He stands abruptly and turns to look at me, still flipping the coin through skilled knuckles. Audibly I gasp when I see his eyes are bloodshot, blotchy stains on his tan cheeks. The look in his eyes terrifies me.

  “Lucas?” Taking a tentative step forward, he sharply shakes his head once as he studies me.

  “Lucas, what’s wrong?” My voice is filled with fear. Shoulders rigid, his whole body draws tight as if he’s about to explode. I move to go to him, and he takes the few steps to the door before sliding it closed and shutting me out. Open-mouthed, I stand in my bra and panties sinking with unease.

  We face off like that for endless seconds, before he averts his gaze, resuming his seat and picking up his script.

  Rule number one, don’t take the process personally.

  Nothing about this situation seems like process, and I fight myself to keep from opening the door and demanding answers. Something is horribly wrong. I’ve never seen such devastation on his face, never seen him so distraught.

  I have to believe he’s finally broken down about Blake, which is probably the right explanation and maybe what he needs, but the look on my husband’s face will haunt me for the rest of my life.

  Lucas

  Gabriela’s confession stabs me continually as I pace my trailer. In that alley, I was brought to my knees by her revelation. Blake was guilty, but not in a way I could have ever fathomed. I’d demanded her silence, accused her of being the reason his life was over because of her inability to keep him out of it. In that respect, she was guilty, and I’d been quick to point a finger at her in anger. She’d all but begged for my forgiveness as I ripped myself away from her clutches, threatening her with every fiber of my being to keep his name out of the press. She’d tearfully agreed, I assumed due to guilt and the threats I was spewing before she left me to bleed out. Once I managed to make it to my SUV, my racing thoughts lined up as if her confession pulled the handle on a slot machine.

  “Yo, Blake,” I say, knocking on his bedroom door before peeking inside. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed with his face in his hands. His answering silence has me pushing past the door and studying him in the center of his bedroom.

  “Whatever it is, I’m not up for it.” He sighs and pulls open his bedside drawer grabbing a prescription bottle. I step forward and take it from him.

  “What the hell is this? This isn’t prescribed to you.”

  He snatches the bottle from my hand. “Chill out, man. It’s just something to help me with aches and pains.”

  “Yeah, what’s aching?”

  Shrewd eyes scrutinize me. “I’ve got it handled.”

  I study his gray complexion. We’re supposed to start filming our next movie in a few days, and he’s nowhere near ready for it.

  “What in the hell is going on with you, man? You’ve been out all hours of the night, and we haven’t run lines. I can’t carry you through this.”

  “Then don’t,” he snaps. “I’m not asking you for shit.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “Look,” he says, lighting a cigarette and blowing a puff of smoke in the dense air between us. “I get you’re worried, but I’ll be there. This isn’t my first rodeo.”

  “No, it’s
your second. A stint on a TV show and one movie credit doesn’t make you an expert.”

  He shakes his head and stares at me incredulously. “Yeah, and reading a few fucking books doesn’t make you an actor.”

  I resist the urge to tug him up by his collar. We’ve been roommates for almost five years, and I’ve never seen him so self-destructive. More and more he’s numbing himself, and I can’t think of one good reason why. We’ve upgraded our West Hollywood bungalow with every imaginable comfort. For the first time since we became roommates, we’re able to pay rent without issue. The offers are coming in, and the champagne and women keep flowing.

  “Are you looking for a reason to fuck it up? We’re onto something here. Coke last night, Percocet this morning, what’s next? Mainlining heroin?”

  “How about whatever the fuck I feel like?” he snaps with the pinched cigarette between his lips while pulling up his jeans. He’s lost weight, and they hang low on his hips. He points the burning cherry in my direction along with an accusing finger. “Don’t tough love me, man, you’re so out of your depth.”

  “Then why don’t you clue me in, because from where I’m standing, you don’t have a reason for this bullshit.”

  “You’re such a good guy,” he snaps sarcastically, “a real Boy Scout. You think they’re going to appreciate all that work you do when they aren’t looking? They won’t. Get ready to be disappointed.” Disposing of his cigarette in an empty beer bottle, he grabs a waiting T-shirt off his bed and pulls it on.

  “You’re a real asshole, you know that?”

  “Matter of fact, I do,” he says carelessly. “I’m glad you finally figured it out, but you’re a day late. There comes a point in life where you just have to acknowledge who you are. It’s not such a bad gig. It’s pretty fucking liberating actually, and it’s time to embrace it, and it’s been…fun.” He widens his eyes, his lips curling up. “Fuck this life and the next one, I don’t want to be the good guy in either one of them.”

  I shake my head and glare down at him. “You’re strung out, and you need to sleep. You’re going to blow this ride, Blake. This is what we’ve been working for.”

  “You think they know?” he asks absently, his pupils a pinpoint when he finally looks at me.

  “Know what?” His speech is slurring and has worsened since our conversation started.

  “They know, they can always pick us out.” Confused, I watch as he swipes some cash off his bedside table and shoves it in his pocket.

  “Dude, you’re wasted, you don’t need to go anywhere.”

  He laughs sarcastically. “What should I do instead? You want me to carry your books to the library for you? Haven’t I helped enough?”

  “Of course, you know I’m grateful—”

  He cuts me off with a swipe of his hand through the air. “Then how about we consider that help my one good deed. Everyone needs a point of redemption, right? ‘Sides you know the saying; no good deed goes unpunished. Find another mentor, man, don’t make me yours.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. This is steady work. You know what this means for the both of us.”

  His eyes flash with disappointment before they dull. “This is about the movie.” He glances at the carpet before his lips upturn, and he slaps my face playfully. “But isn’t it always? Don’t worry your pretty little head, I won’t fuck up your movie.” Grabbing the pills, he pushes past me. “Sky is the limit, Luc, you’re going to be a big, big star!” he shouts sarcastically before he slams the front door behind him.

  I didn’t lay eyes on him again until the day we started filming. The director didn’t say shit about the way he looked, no one did because it fit his character perfectly. Blake disappeared the minute filming stopped for the day, and I didn’t see him again until it was his turn to shoot. He was brilliant in that movie, and it earned him his first lead in the next. Out of the blue, a few weeks after filming wrapped, Blake came back to the bungalow acting more himself than I’d seen in months. I assumed he’d put himself in that place for the movie. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  Shaking, I run a hand down my face.

  I wasn’t listening, too afraid he would screw up our chances of making it while never understanding the implication of his words. I’d been too obsessed he might cost me becoming that movie star I dreamed of being.

  As it turns out, being that movie star, cost me Blake.

  Choking, I cough as heated tears slide away clearing my vision in more ways than one. I stare at a picture of us on my cell phone that Mila snapped years ago in Mexico.

  “I’m so fucking sorry, man,” I whisper into the void. “Tell me what to do.”

  “Lucas,” Nova’s voice sounds along with a sharp knock outside my trailer. “They’re ready for you on set.”

  Mila

  PRESENT

  My cell phone alarm goes off beside me in the comfortable bed of the inn, and I scrape myself from the mattress checking the time. I’m due to meet Audrey downstairs for breakfast in ten minutes.

  Lucas: I love you.

  Pain rocks me as his latest text pops up on screen and I turn off my phone.

  Love, is that enough for me? Not today. Maybe not tomorrow either. With every breath I manage and every beat of my heart, it’s clear I’m still in love with my husband, but that doesn’t make anything okay. It was so easy to fall for him. So ridiculously easy. Our third date began with a trip to Cairo, but even if it took place in the shittiest section of the universe, I still would have started to fall for him. It was Lucas that I was drawn to; his energy, his smile, his tenderness, his patience. Letting the water pour down my body, I shampoo my hair, recalling the week we became something more than the girl next door dating a movie star.

  Our time in Egypt is a testament to living the dream, every day more surreal. We’ve only dined out once, barely managing a glimpse of the city. It’s about all Lucas’s shooting schedule will allow. It’s been enough for me. Shooting takes place mostly on closed off streets or remote parts of the desert. On set we spend the long wait time in between takes together; talking, eating, laughing, and when granted enough privacy, tearing into each other like animals.

  Lucas has introduced me to most of the movie crew by first name. I love that he takes the time to get to know them, that he could tell me little details about everyone he works with. It is his third movie playing lead, and I can see the excitement in his expression and the depth of his dedication. I’ve never realized just how much work goes into every film. Being on set is a lot different than I thought it would be. It’s been a week of firsts. There’s an unbelievable amount of waiting involved in setting up a scene and pinpointing the right light. Before every take, Lucas makes sure to isolate himself with the script to try to get into character. Those who aren’t scrambling around trying to fight the sun for the shot sometimes come and chat with me about the process. I’m an eager student, more interested than I thought I would be to know the ins and outs of production. The hours are grueling, but he never complains. Several of the scenes have zero script and are heavily choreographed fighting sequences. Most of the time, it’s all I can do to keep my hands off him, especially when he approaches me on a break, sweat covering his gladiator-like build. He takes his job seriously and gets along well with the director who is merciless in the number of takes he makes him go through. I’d watched them all closely, appreciating the experience. It’s eye-opening, to say the least.

  Some nights he’s so exhausted when we get back to the hotel room, he can only manage a shower and a few sentences before he passes out.

  Last night, after a shower he had asked me for a massage. I obliged, diligently rubbing him for a few minutes and trying to savor what time we had left but had worked myself up all day to be on the receiving end of his attention. It’s easy to get riled up after watching while he showcases the limits of his body and talent for endless hours. Though selfish, I think better of putting him to sleep and can’t help my wicked idea to keep him awake, if only for
a little longer. He grunts when I straddle his back, putting most of my weight on his firm bare ass. He’s a bit of a nudist when we’re behind closed doors, and that gets no complaints from me.

  Admiring his lean athletic frame, his tan skin, and the naturally drawn muscle of his biceps due to the way he’s situated, I allow myself a few seconds of appreciation before I strike.

  Lazily I draw an X on his back while trying to stifle my laugh.

  “I need all your fingers,” he groans, “not just one.”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll love this. Crissss, cross, ap-ple-sauce.”

  He lifts his head and turns to address me over his shoulder. “What in the hell is criss cross applesauce?”

  “It’s a Swedish technique, trust me,” I say, pressing my lips together to hide my grin. “You’ll love it.”

  He shakes his head, red-rimmed eyes closing before he plants his head in the pillow. “If you say so.”

  I start from the beginning as if the interruption ruined my process, but when I tap the back of his head with the side of my closed fist and belt out the rest, he goes stiff beneath me. “Crack an egg on your head!” I slide my fingers in an ooze-like motion down his back, “feel the yolk gushing down.”

  “What the fuck, Mila?” He groans into his pillow too tired to move.

  I’m already laughing when I smack my fist against his back.

  “Stab a knife, in your back, feel the blood gushing down.” I walk my fingers up his toned muscle and spout the rest in a sing-song voice. “Spiders crawling up your back, spiders crawling down.”

  “Worst masseuse ever,” he grunts. “Are you being serious right now?”