Method

“It was a selfish decision,” I argue as he twists the nozzle to start our shower.

Lucas gives me a look of warning I ignore.

“Babe, I’m no authority on Blake but—”

“You’re right, you’re not,” he snaps, his cold stare chilling me as he pulls me into the shower and the heads spray out in all directions soaking us in seconds. His eyes roam my body, and it shudders in appreciation despite the rising tension. His next words stun me. “I should have come inside you, it’s time for a baby.”

“That’s a mutual decision, one you can’t make on impulse because your friend dies.”

“Fuck,” he slaps the tile next to my head. His eyes fix on the drain between us, and all I see etched all over his beautiful face is pain.

“I love you, but you can’t disappear on me. That’s not how we work.”

“I know.”

“You started it this way,” I remind him.

“I know, baby, I know,” he replies, already a world away.

“You’re putting distance between us now,” I point out.

Accusation dances in his eyes as they snap to mine. “Maybe because I want to think the way I want to, not the way you think I should.”

Swallowing, I take a step back. “That’s why you went quiet on me?”

Guilt mars his features, but his words slice. “Some of it. I don’t need you to police me on what to think or how to feel.”

Armoring up, I try to reason with my anger. “I don’t—” I stop myself mid-sentence because he’s right. I’m twisting his feelings into some sort of quest to make him see what happened was Blake’s choice. It’s all wrong. Still, I’m cut. His words hurt.

“I’m sorry,” I offer with a sigh. “You’re right. Say what you want to say.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t need any more guilt right now.”

“Toug

h shit, you don’t get to take that back,” I reply with a little bite as I pour soap on a soft loofah and begin to scrub myself. I have no doubt this shower is going to be cut short by one of our tempers, so I do what I can to stop it.

“Be honest with me, or we’ve got nothing.” He stares down at me wordless, and I can see so much of what he’s not saying. He blames himself, and I’ve cornered him into discussing something he’s not ready to talk about. I have to give him the space to sort it out, but I’m not letting it go.

“Maybe we shouldn’t fight,” I murmur. “I don’t know how to help.”

His low whisper twists the knife. “You can’t help. Blake’s dead.”

It’s final. That’s the hardest part for him, maybe for us both. There’s no solution, only finality.

“My dad told me, ‘It takes fifteen years to be an overnight success,’ and it took me seventeen and a half years.”—Adrien Brody

Lucas

“I can’t do this shit anymore,” Blake says, hauling in a bus tray full of dirty glasses. “I’m done after tonight.”

“It could be worse,” I say, wiping the sweat off my chest with a bar towel, “we could be passing out flyers in a chicken suit.”

He frowns. “Who did that?”

“Brad Pitt.” I pull bottles for yet another specialty cocktail. “I read it in an autobiography, I think.”

He glances around the club full of drugged up and flamboyantly dressed men. “That sounds more appealing at the moment. I’ll take the fucking chicken suit.”