Method

“No Mila, that’s life.”

Mila

Slipping on my short white gloves, I check my appearance one last time. Thankful for the predictable LA weather, I use large sunglasses to cover up evidence of my lack of sleep. My lips are painted hot pink, but that’s the only hint of color I add to my ensemble. My dress is a vintage Hepburn that I’d picked out six months ago. Inside the fabric, I’m numb.

Lucas is still calling and texting but hasn’t been at my door in weeks. Some part of me recognizes that we may very well be over. My stomach rolls and I place my palm over it. “Hey, baby, Mommy could really use some help not throwing up today.”

Before I know what’s happening, I’m in tears at the edge of my bed, holding my abdomen. I can’t feel anything yet, but I feel everything. The knock on my door kicks me out of another pity party, and I answer it to see Paul.

“Hi,” I say, closing the door and locking it behind me.

“Good morning,” he says, leading the way to the car.

I pause at the steps, staring into the limousine, and Paul glances back at me reading my hesitation. “He’s not in there.”

It would have been the perfect time for him to trap me, but he didn’t. “Okay, let’s go.”

Once inside the limo, I clasp my hands in my lap and try my best not to ask the questions burning on my tongue, but I do.

“How is he?”

Paul’s chocolate-brown eyes meet mine in the rearview, his expression grave. I nod.

“Is he still drinking?”

“Mila—”

“Fuck your NDA, Paul, answer the question. I know you care about him.”

“Yes, sometimes, he’s drinking. But he makes me drive him. He doesn’t leave the house much since the accident.”

“What accident?”

He shakes his head.

“Paul!”

“He crashed into a median a week ago, his Land Rover was the only thing that suffered.”

“Was he drunk?”

“I don’t know. It was early.”

“What are you doing, Lucas?” I whisper under my breath.

“It’s a bender,” Paul says simply. “Been there myself for the same reason.”

“With all your charm, I can’t see how any woman could ever leave you.”

He glares at me in the rearview, and I glare back before we both burst into laughter. When it subsides, I glance up to see something resembling a smile.

“So, Paul smiles. Maybe you don’t hate me.”

“Of course not,” he says, “I’ve been around enough to know that I don’t need to be friends with any of my clients. It’s hazardous.”

“I get it.” I do. I can’t imagine the things he’s bore witness to over the years.

He bites the edge of his lip.