Method

“When was the last time you talked to him?”

“The night before they found him. We were supposed to head down to my mother’s in Santa Barbara and spend a few days together. I just knew it wasn’t over between us, ya know? At least I was hoping he was thinking along the same lines as me. I was so excited. I was going to spend the morning getting pampered, and then I was supposed to pick him up. The landlord said he was blaring music and he had left the door unlocked. Every part of it was intentional. And I can’t stop picturing him going through the motions.” She cringes as tears glide down her face as if it’s now second nature to talk through her anguish. It probably is. “I was leaving for the salon when I got the call,” she says, her voice weakening as she drifts off in thought. “Maybe he was never planning on coming. Maybe he just used it as an excuse to talk to me one last time. He told me he loved me. Those were his last words to me. At least he gave me that. But nothing in his tone said goodbye. Nothing.”

She visibly swallows. “All I kept thinking on the way to the funeral home was the bigg

est problem I was supposed to have that day was picking out what shade of nail polish I would wear. I was nervous but in that good way. I know it might not seem like it, but we had a decent marriage, Mila, for the most part. It was just so hard to love fire and ice. I never knew where we stood one month to the next. But his ambition, his need to be absolutely everything got in the way of us, our happiness, our life together. He lived for everyone but himself. He lived for them, and they turned on him. They ruined him. God,” she wipes her hand down her face, “why, why did he do it now? It doesn’t make any sense. If he needed me, I would’ve come running. I was already there. I was still so in love with him. I still am.” She lets out a guttural sob and sinks where she stands as I go to her, throwing my arms around her and erasing the distance of the last few years of our friendship. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper as she collapses on me. “I’m so, so, sorry, Amanda.” I do the only thing that feels right in this fucked-up situation, I cry with her.

Numb and thoroughly exhausted from consoling Amanda, I drive home determined to keep my vows to my husband. If he’s sick in grief, then I’ll help him figure out a cure. As selfish as the thought is, I don’t ever want to end up in Amanda’s shoes. I know my husband. I don’t doubt that. But he’s just as susceptible of falling victim to his career. The thought has me speeding to our driveway, running up the pavers and through our front door.

“Lucas?” I’m brought to a halt when I hear the screech of his guitar.

Right after we were married, Lucas had played a rock star and had spent months prepping for the part, mastering the instrument. It was one of the roles he’d lost himself in, and that amazing effort got him his first real taste of stardom. His picture was everywhere. There was even some Oscar buzz though he wasn’t nominated. He regularly played, more so when he was prepping for a role. He said it put him in a sort of meditative state. He is better now than he was when he filmed the movie. If the man weren’t one of the best contributors to cinema, he would make an awesome rock star. Blake played as well, and they used to jam regularly when they worked together.

Following the sound of the strings, I find him on our balcony bathed in the half-light of the moon with his amp attached, his guitar howling out Smashing Pumpkin’s “Bullet with Butterfly Wings.” I can’t help the light laughter that bubbles out of me as he serenades the beach and the surrounding houses with no shits given. But it’s the sight of him shirtless, in well-fitting jeans and bare feet that has my tongue going dry. Head bent, his dark hair naturally falls across his forehead while he bites his lip, running in his own perfect time along with the bass and drums. It’s chaotic but sounds incredible. I stand in awe of him and just watch. As he mouths the words, I see something take shape, something that looks like anger.

It takes the better half of the song for him to see me standing there and when he does, I’m slapped breathless with the intensity of his gaze. As if on cue, I get a flash of brilliant white teeth. He’d had them capped just after we met because according to the powers that be, they were too small. They weren’t “movie star” teeth. It was the only unnatural thing about him, but you could never tell. I still hated it. I hated everything the industry tried to change about my husband. I didn’t want them having any more than the time they paid him handsomely for. I was becoming resentful of how much they took from us, and it was apparent he was beginning to feel the same way. And now with Blake’s passing, and the state of Amanda and her words, I was more fearful than ever that one day they may take too much of him.

Lucas’s smile fades marginally as he reads the sadness in my posture and observes me carefully for a few seconds before he turns his back to me, facing the ocean while never missing a note.

Tamping down my hurt to his indifference, I realize I have a decision to make. Fight or fuck. I choose neither, drawing a hot bath before going to sleep alone.

“There’s a fine line between the Method actor and the schizophrenic.”—Nicolas Cage

Mila

PRESENT

Pulling up to the inn, I move to gather my things but sit idle in my Range Rover when I hear Lucas’s name mentioned on the morning show.

Casey: Bon! What in the world is going on with Lucas Walker?

Bonnie: Oh no, do we have another Britney meltdown on our hands?

Casey: Seems like it. Apparently, Lucas Walker was nearly arrested last night for attacking paparazzi. Sources said when the pap asked Walker about his wife’s whereabouts, Lucas lost it. One of Walker’s bodyguards broke up the altercation but not before he got a few punches in. When police arrived, no arrests were made, but those close-by said Lucas was slurring and still spewing threats.

Bonnie: That pap is going to get a great settlement.

Casey: Don’t they always? But this isn’t like Lucas. I wonder what in the world has gotten into that man. And where is Mila? We haven’t seen them publicly together in months?

Bonnie: This is bad. So bad. If they split up, I’m literally going to cry.

Casey: Me too. Between the reports from the set of the film he just wrapped and this latest incident, it seems like our good boy has gone very bad.

Bonnie: He can still eat crackers in my bed.

Casey: Bon!

Bonnie: Just saying, if you need a place to stay, Lucas, I’ve got room. I’m all about the damaged goods.

Casey: You’re so bad.

Bonnie: You know it. That boy is fine.

Casey: Truth. But let’s put our hands together and say a prayer for our beloved Lucas Walker, Hollywood. It seems he could sure use them.

“What are you doing, Lucas?” I whisper before turning off the radio. He’s throwing everything away because of my silence while publicly imploding. A part of me wants to go back and try to save him from himself, but the other part of me knows he has to see this side of things in order to hit rock bottom. Funnily enough, neither one of us had any idea bottom was coming. Blake’s death had taken more of a toll than either of us could have anticipated, but Lucas was always stronger than his demons. He’s been battling them for years without giving them any power. When I met him, he was focused, alert, aware of his limitations, and working hard to break through them. He was a force of nature, purely determined to make a name for himself with his unbelievable presence. I’ll never forget the way I felt the first time he picked me up.

When I answer the door, he could knock me down with a feather. While he looked edible in the tux he’d worn the night before, the man could sport a sweater and jeans like no one’s business. The material hangs on him showcasing his incredible build, and it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. I’ve spent my entire day polishing, waxing, and buffing, but I’m still unprepared for what greets me. His Wayfarers dangle from his fingers, his palms on the frame of the door, hip cocked as if he were peering through the peephole before I answered it. His thick, black hair is loosely styled and pushed away from his forehead. The sheer size of him is intimidating. A fucking movie star and last year’s sexiest man alive is at my doorstep to take me on a date. I give myself some grace to be a little awestruck. Breath knocked out of me, I stand stupefied by him briefly before I get my shit together.