Method

And maybe for Mila, there’s no coming back.

I twist the band on my finger, my only reassurance that we still exist. If she won’t let me try to heal us, I’m stunted. I can’t move forward without her, and I can’t go back.

But I can get the fuck out of LA.

My chair collides with the glass before I slide open the door and head into my closet. I grab a duffle and begin to fill it with all my shit. I can’t exist in this house anymore without her. I rip my clothes off the racks one by one and shove them into the bag. Tearing through the room with the sack in hand, I head to the bathroom ripping everything that belongs to me off the shelves. I make the decision that I’m never coming back to this house. Not without the life I had when I moved into it. Heading back into the closet, I pull shoes off the shelves filling another bag. In my haste, I knock down a Nike box. The contents come pouring out and hit my chin. Pissed off, I kick the box and see a tablet pop out with a card attached. Bending down I scan the note scribbled in Mila’s handwriting.

In case you forgot.

X

I fire the tablet up, and my breath catches in my throat.

Hundreds of pictures fill the screen in scattering pixels before coming together to form the words Happy 6th Anniversary, Hollywood!

Slumping down against the shoe rack my heart cracks when I hear the first song start to play, and a picture fades in, a candid of us on our wedding day leaving the reception. She’s laughing, her head thrown back just after I’ve scooped her up to get her into the limo, lavender roses hanging from the hand she has draped over my shoulder. It’s the perfect picture of us, and I’ve never seen it.

How much have I missed?

That’s when I realize they are mostly all candid shots, trickles in time where we merely existed as ourselves even while in the public eye. It’s the best fucking movie I’ve ever seen in my life.

Grunting at the ache, I rub the middle of my chest to try to subdue it. And then…it starts. And it’s us, our life in music and pictures. Some I don’t remember taking, parties I don’t remember attending. It’s then I know she’s the true storyteller, our memory keeper. Tracing her picture with my finger, recognition sets in and I rip at my hair.

“I’m so sorry.”

And that’s when I see us. A choked gasp leaves my throat as razor-like pain rips through my chest. We’re both clad in our black tuxes and lavender vests, wine country blurred in the background. Blake’s standing tall, a huge shit-eating grin on his face, his arm slung around me. I’m turned into him, hysterically laughing into his shoulder, my fingers gathered at my watering eyes.

“You really did it, huh?” he says, approaching me as my bride is whisked away for pictures. “No turning back now.”

I grin, catching my bride’s eyes as she tosses a look over her shoulder. “I got the girl.”

He hooks my neck, pulling me into him and runs his knuckles through my hair. “Congrats, bro.”

“Stop it, you dick,” I half-heartedly gripe. “Mila will be pissed if you fuck up my hair for the pictures.”

He releases me and rolls his eyes. “Already catering to the wife. Life as you know it is over. Before long, you’ll be carrying a dad bag, changing shitty diapers on the plane, and saying things like “yes, dear.” Gone are the days of careless living.”

“If I recall correctly, your ring finger is occupied, and I don’t see you carrying a dad bag.”

Studying me, he pulls a cigarette from his pocket, pinches it with his lips and lights it before releasing a slow exhale. “I’m not terrorizing the population with my offspring.”

“Lucky us.”

“Hey, you two,” one of the photographers says, approaching us and crinkling her nose at Blake’s cigarette. “Put that out. Let’s get one of you two with your jackets buttoned.”

Blake and I do her bidding and button up to pose.

“This shit here is why I eloped,” Blake snarks.

“Yes, I know, I was there. Suck it up, asshole, I’m only doing this once.”

“I’ll have you know I’ve been on my best behavior these last two days in bumfucked wine country,” he chides, following the directions being spouted at us.

“Yeah, well, you haven’t given your toast yet, so the jury is still out,” I remind him.

He scoffs. “I intend to say the most honorable things. I’m going to make your toast look pathetic.”

“There wasn’t a dry eye in the house when I gave mine, you included.”