“I’m sorry. I just didn’t think you would want me to go.”
“We’re not supposed to lie to each other, Mila,” he says absently, starting the water as if lost in thought.
“Everyone tells white lies with a good enough motive. You included, Mr. ‘I love wine.’” I smile, and this time he doesn’t return it.
“I guess that’s true.”
“I’ll text you on my way home. I’ll cook tonight.”
He merely nods and steps into the shower.
Mila
Stuck in traffic on the Pacific Highway due to an accident, I shoot a quick text to Amanda letting her know I’m en route. It’s only a twenty-five-minute drive from our house in Santa Monica to Blake’s apartment in Venice Beach, but with the line in front of me, it will take at least twice as long.
My cell rings and I half expect it to be Lucas with an apology of sorts, though I’m not sure why I would expect one. We’re in a strange place, but I’ll be patient. You don’t snap back from something like this and move on as if your life hasn’t been altered.
Though I wasn’t that close with Blake, my husband loved him like family, relied on him and his opinion despite their life choices. Blake was always a variable. We never knew what condition we would see him in. I vow to myself that I’ll try harder to give him the space he’s indirectly asking for, support his project, help him get out of his head, and resurrect the career I started before I became a Hollywood wife.
My phone buzzes again on the seat next to me and I see my mother’s name on the screen before letting the call go to voice mail. I’m not in the mood to give her a weekly report. Her idea of conversation is an interrogation. She means well, but she’s the type that offers advice whether it’s asked for or not. I’d learned over the years to just humor her, let her have her say and nod in agreement. It’s not the most constructive way to have a relationship, but it’s better than arguing. She’s eased up on her aggression as of late, and though it saddens me, I can’t help to think it’s because she’s aging. I’m still not in the mood. I’m already on edge. It’s going to take all I have in me to go into Blake’s apartment and keep Amanda calm.
A car horn sounds behind me, the driver impatient for me to take the five feet of space that’s become available in front of me. I’m helpless in this gridlock. Amanda is probably losing her mind, and I’m stuck in at least a half an hour more of bumper-to-bumper traffic. Lana Del Ray sings “Young and Beautiful” as I pull my hair into a knot and open the sunroof on my Range Rover to soak up some sunshine. In an act of good faith, I shoot off a text to my husband.
It’s beautiful out. Wine date later?
It takes the better part of ten minutes for a text to come through.
Oscar-Winning actor Lucas Walker: Sure.
I laugh hysterically at the new handle he’s put for himself on my phone.
Oscar winner, huh?
Oscar-Winning actor Lucas Walker: You know the rules.
I did. Lucas was a firm believer of manifestation. His philosophy was to put his dreams and aspirations out there and speak them aloud and frequently, not only to hope but to expect the universe to answer. He said that’s how he indirectly became a success. He often tells me it was decided when he was young and there was no wiggle room, it was expected, so that’s how it happened. The work he did in between the dream and realization was a part of it, and he doesn’t deny it was necessary. He insists it was the road between vision and completion.
I know for a fact that the handle on my phone is a joke because Lucas cares more about the work than winning an award. He’d left his Actor statue from the SAG awards at an after party the first time he won anything.
Then again, what actor genuinely doesn’t care about an Oscar?
When he first told me about his theories, I was a little hesitant to buy into it. Some people just need to see to believe, and I guess I was one of them. The truth is, I’ve seen the manifestation of so much since we met, I’ve traded in my cynicism and become a believer. Lucas made me one.
After a somber greeting, Amanda hugs me tightly to her before letting me into the apartment. Seconds into our embrace, I hear the familiar click of the cameras. I hadn’t seen any paparazzi when I pulled up. Lucas was right, I would have been busted by morning. Stepping inside, I survey the space. I’d never been to Blake’s apartment, he’d never invited us over when he moved to Venice Beach after the divorce, and the minute I walked in, I knew why. It was a far cry from the house he’d shared with Amanda in the hills. His fall had hit him harder financially than Lucas and I realized. He had upscale furnishings in between mutely stained walls. He made good use of the space but, it was obvious that his once posh life had gone awry. Lucas always said Blake was the comeback kid and that he would land on his feet, but before he passed, it seemed no one would touch him. His reputation had already been tainted.
It’s a shame because Blake was insanely handsome, extremely talented, and I always got the feeling he didn’t know his worth. Staring into his office, my eyes water when I recall the last time I saw him.
Blake was ushering a grimacing Lucas into our house when I spotted them at our door.
“Oh my God, what happened?”
Blake grins at me like he just found a million-dollar bill as they brush past me toward the living room. “You married yourself a real cowboy, Mila.”
“Fuck you,” Lucas growls as Blake deposits him on the couch and he lands with a groan.
Blake belts out the standard western showdown whistle before bursting into laughter and turning to me. “Your husband decided to take an unusual route to infertility. Looks pretty serious,” he says before snapping his fingers and pointing at me. “You know,” his eyes trail down my body. “I’ve been divorced a hot minute. Need someone to keep the home fires burning? Or maybe I should make a deposit just in case he no longer has any swimmers.”
I shake my head unamused. “Be serious, Blake, he’s hurt.”