Method

“Looks like it,” I say with a grin.

“We’re the only two people in the graduating class who did shit for ourselves.”

“I didn’t graduate,” I remind her.

“Yeah, well, you’re still a hero in those parts. You didn’t do so bad,” she says. “I mean I saw The Willing.”

I cringe. “You’re the only one.”

“Really, Lucas, what in the hell possessed you to make that piece of shit? It was the worst.”

She rounds her desk, and I take a seat opposite her. “Food was enough incentive back then to take any job.” I exaggeratedly roll my eyes. “Everyone’s a critic.”

“At least it was ahead of its time with the zombie apocalypse.”

“What about you, ballbuster, you never told me you moved to LA? I don’t remember get

ting a phone call.”

“Well, that’s because I just so happened to fall in love with the biggest piece of shit to attend Harvard. I got two souvenirs,” she nods toward the picture at the edge of her desk, “and seventy-five percent of everything else.”

“You mean half, right?”

“No,” she grins deviously. “I mean seventy-five percent, that’s why I’m the best divorce lawyer in this state.”

I pick the picture up and study it. “Cute.”

“No, they aren’t,” she says with a laugh. “They’re in that weird, awkward stage where they’re losing teeth and making dumb ass fart jokes. But they were beautiful babies, so I have faith they’ll be decent-looking adults.”

I’m grinning from ear to ear. “It’s no wonder you were my first love.”

“I was your first everything.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Don’t pity me, not many women can claim they stole a movie star’s virginity.”

I raise a brow. “And how many people have you told?”

She rolls her eyes. “None.”

“And that’s exactly why I’m here. I trust you.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” she says, giving me a wink. “But I have the feeling you aren’t here to reminisce or pick up where we left off. Unless…oh, hell, Lucas are you getting a divorce?”

Letting out all the breath in my body, I look over at her.

She reads my expression perfectly. “Oh, this isn’t good.”

“I need your help.”

It takes me an eternity on the 405 to get home, and as the early hours blur into afternoon, I find myself alone on our balcony. Scripts sit in piles next to my chair, and I can’t bring myself to open a single one. The ocean pours onto the shore, and I study the waves that no longer seem tranquil to me. What I once considered a sign of freedom now feels like a border. Sweat trickles down my back at the idea that this is the extent of the life I have left, trapped behind a wall of ocean, my only task to bury myself in someone else’s words.

I love you.

I send the text daily now. It’s all I have. It’s the truth. I’ve done everything I can to get her to talk to me. We’ve never gone this long without the other, for any reason. Six years of marriage is slipping through my hands, and she still refuses to give me permission to bridge the gap. I’m losing her, daily, every minute that ticks by is agony.

I deserve it, but the burn doesn’t give a shit. It’s eating me alive. I let it hurt and refuse to drink it away anymore. I have a son or daughter coming that needs a focused father. The problem is, I’ve lost all mine.