Page 58 of Accidentally Wed to My Enemy

I almost pitched it straight in the trash, flash drive, sticky note, envelope and all. I’d gotten through most of today without thinking of Lacey. I was moving on, finally, or Detective James Foster was. I didn’t need to see her, to snap back to myself.

I should’ve tossed the thing, maybe, but something stopped me. Something made me reach for my laptop instead, and plug the drive into the USB slot. Three files popped up, two videos and a text file. I read the text first, a note from Berg.

Please find attached my rough cut of Lost War. I’ve also attached some between-scenes footage which will appear in an upcoming documentary re: my creative process. I’ll need you to view that and sign off on its usage.

Thanks,

Anders Berg

I sighed and clicked on the documentary clip. Berg’s face filled my screen, then he backed away. He talked about how he’d gotten started, filming splat horror with his mom’s old camcorder. I tuned him out and watched the ocean behind him, so blue it seemed to merge with the sky. That must’ve been shot on our first day of filming, right after my sweaty beach scene with Lacey. Berg had kept us running in between takes, so when he yelled action, we’d be panting for real. I smiled at the memory, but my chest hurt. That had been the start of us, of me and Lacey. The day I’d almost kissed her back in her suite.

“For casting, I like to build out from my star.” Berg had sat down now, facing the ocean. “OnLost War, that was Lacey. She was, she has… she has this quality, this gentleness about her. But she can turn around and be hard, and be frightening. I mean, not the real Lacey. She’s not frightening at all. But her onscreen presence, she has that range. I had to have her, which led me to Eric. I guess you could say I also played Cupid. I brought them together. I’ll take credit for that.” Berg laughed, and I heard the cameraman laugh with him.

The image flickered out and my screen went blank. A few seconds later, a new clip popped up, Berg directing me and Lacey in a trench warfare scene. He was yelling at Lacey to get in the mud, not to be scared of it. To dive in and wallow. She whispered something to me that the camera didn’t catch, something that made me laugh into my sleeve. I wished I remembered what that had been.

“Crawl in it,” yelled Berg. “Both of you, show me.”

We got down on our elbows and squidged through the mud. The camera zoomed in on our wriggling butts. I made a mental note to tell Berg to cut that.

“Good, now do that with the camera rolling.”

I helped Lacey up and she slipped in the mud. I took her arms to steady her, and that’s when I saw it. Lacey said something, I chuckled, and my face changed. I slipped out of character, losing Lock’s hardness, and the way I looked at Lacey, the way she looked at me — I’d never seen myself look that way, not onscreen, not ever. I skipped back ten seconds and watched it again, and froze the picture when our eyes met. Lacey smiled up at me with such adoration, and the look on my face…

“The lighting,” I muttered. “It’s just the light.” I sped past the trench scene and into the next one, Berg reviewing footage at night in his trailer.

“We shoot a lot, uh, the world won’t see. A lot that’s not worth it, that ends up on the floor. But some cuts are hard to make, like look at this.” The picture flipped to Berg’s footage, me in my prison cell, yelling through the door. Lacey yelled back at me, then the scene ended, and she came back and leaned on the door. She set her hand where my head was and her scowl softened, and there it was again, that look in her eyes. That look, like we were shooting another kind of movie, the kind that ended in happily ever after. That look had no place in the scene we’d just shot, and I’d barely glimpsed it when the clip cut out.

“I had to shorten that scene,” said Berg. “I was losing momentum, and—”

I skipped ahead, to a dimly lit night shot. Berg was still talking, but I peered past him. We must’ve been between takes, because I was stretched next to Lacey, both of us flopped in our director’s chairs. I had my eyes closed. Lacey was reading. Her hand crept over to mine and I took it, half-sleeping.

I skipped ahead again, and again, and again, but wherever I paused, I found that same wonky lighting. That lighting that made Lacey’s eyes shine with love, and my own eyes reflect that. It wasn’t just my eyes, either, but the way I touched her. The way I relaxed when she was near me. My body remembered that, the way she made me feel — loved and wanted, half of a whole. Like when we touched I reclaimed part of myself. Like we became one, and I found peace. Why had I,howhad I let that pass by me? How had I thought I’d be better without her?

I’d settled for the loss I’d been trying to spare us, and not because I had to. Because I was scared. I’d chosen the very pain I’d tried so hard to avoid, with Lacey, with Sam, with everyone in my life. I’d chosen the pain and forgotten why it was painful — because what came before it was what made life worth living. What came before loss was having something to lose, and I’d had something wonderful, and I’d thrown it away.

“You were right. I’m a coward.” I shut down my laptop and reached for my phone, but texting Lacey didn’t feel like enough. I needed to see her. To know she was okay.

I checked her social media feed, all shiny, happy selfies — her with her improv crew, her with her agent. Her popping a champagne cork to celebrate a new project. Publicity photos. I couldn’t trust them. I googled her instead, but her press was the same, sunshine and rainbows, a show for the fans. Unless… unless shehadmoved on, and her good mood was real. Maybe with me gone, she’d come to her senses. Seen she had no need for a coward like me.

I needed to know. I needed to see her. I googled some more and found a quick blurb. She’d be appearing tomorrow on a morning talk show, to talk about her new project and working with Berg. I had the morning free. I could fly down there. I could catch her before her show and be back for my call time. I could tell her the truth and beg her forgiveness, and maybe, just maybe, win a second chance.

I took a deep breath — I could do all that. But I had a stop to make first, one more fence needing mending, if it wasn’t too late.

I grabbed my umbrella and headed for Sam’s hotel. When I arrived, he was packing, and none too pleased to see me. He’d had to fly up here to deal with my meltdown, and no doubt he figured I’d come to make his life harder. I’d been doing a lot of that lately. He didn’t deserve it.

“Hey, Sam,” I said.

He pursed his lips. “I can’t miss my flight. If this is about Gruber—”

“It’s not. Can we talk?”

He glanced at his watch, then seemed to soften. He waved me inside and headed for the minibar.

“Can I get you a drink?”

“No. Uh, yeah, maybe. What’s strong in there?”

He poured me a whisky from a miniature-sized bottle, then poured himself one and perched on the bed. “Okay, let’s have it. What’s on your mind?”

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