Chapter 46 Lex
Lex
The California sun splashes little beams of light on her mane of dark hair. Her hand is tucked inside mine as we stroll across a downtown sidewalk, my sunglasses and baseball cap doing what they can to shield my identity from probing eyes.
She gives my palm a squeeze. “We should grab curtains for the new condo.”
“I could do curtains.” I glance across the street at a group of young girls pointing and giggling in our direction. “Then food?”
“Food?” She beams. “Say less. I’m dying to try that place off Sunset with the rainbow umbrellas.”
The air is hot and balmy, our hands slick as they intertwine.
We pass a street vendor juggling fruits, his radio blasting ’80s funk music.
A chaotic mural stretches across a wide building, a clash of bold colors that makes me pause.
The aroma of street tacos wafts underneath my nose while a woman on roller skates glides past, trailing a line of pink balloons. It’s an ordinary day in Los Angeles.
Isn’t that how it always starts?
Tragedy never announces itself.
That’s what makes it so devastating—it lurks in the ordinary, in the deceptively normal moments and intervals of day-to-day life. Every terrible ending begins as just another day.
Until it isn’t.
Today was nothing special. We went for a walk in the park after making pancakes in the new cast-iron skillet I bought last week.
We laughed about the shapes, none of them spheres—one looked like a lopsided heart, another a squashed star.
Then we grabbed coffee just after ten a.m. at a new café that was advertising a specialty lavender latte my fiancée couldn’t resist trying.
Now we’re shopping for curtains and furniture for the new condominium.
Basic. Routine.
Ordinary.
My eyes catch sight of a woman in a grayish beanie and a baggy plaid top, the fabric hanging loosely over her frame.
Colorless hair spills out from beneath the hat, falling in messy waves over her face.
She hovers near a fire hydrant, fidgeting, her hands jammed deep into the pockets of her oversize coat.
She’s unremarkable at first glance, but there’s a rawness to her, a coiled tension that sends a chill up my spine.
I tug my girl closer by the hand, and she smiles up at me.
“Oh!” She points to the right at the colorful signage. “Bookstore?”
“Do you need more books?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
A grin flickers on my mouth before it tapers off to a flat line.
The woman in the gray hat stalks closer, winding toward us.
Her eyes stand out—pale gold, almost tigerlike, surrounded by bruised-looking circles that make her look equally tired and feral.
She shoulders her way through the crowds of people, those eyes aimed at us.
“Did you want to go to the bookstore now or after—”
“You think you can take him from me?” The woman’s voice explodes with fury, a slew of scratchy, unhinged words. “You bitch. You fucking slut. You were a nobody, and now you think you can take him from me? He’s mine. Who do you think you are? Worthless pig. I’ll take him back. I’ll kill you.”
My vision blurs.
White spots streak across my sight line.
There are moments in your life when you need to make a choice—react quickly, move swiftly, think strategically.
But no one ever tells you that those moments are never simple, never clear-cut.
You’re not the mastermind you envisioned.
You’re just a regular person caught in the cross fire.
Sometimes, you make the right call. Other times, you don’t.
And sometimes, even when you do…you still lose.
I feel her hand slip out of mine, like sand spilling through my fingers.
Her scream pierces the air.
“How dare you touch him. How dare you even look at him. He’s mine, he’s mine, he’s mine .” The woman in the beanie lunges.
Soot-soiled hands curl around the throat I’ve kissed endlessly since the day I made her mine. Furious spit sprays the face I’ve spent hours memorizing, counting freckles and green flecks in her eyes. A fist connects with the chest that holds the heart I’ve sworn to protect.
I don’t remember moving.
One moment, I’m standing paralyzed on the sidewalk, and the next, I’m caught between thrashing limbs and hard knuckles.
Clothing tears and shreds. Shopping bags land on the cement.
A twinge of pain ignites in my abdomen. Bystanders shriek from street corners while cars pull off to the side of the road and voices shout for 911.
I have her. I’ve got her.
It’s a fast-motion blur as I manage to rip the assailant away, watching as the woman stumbles backward, her eyes widening as they trail me from head to toe. Her complexion turns pasty the moment before she books it in the opposite direction.
Fuck.
I can’t even process what just happened.
But it’s okay.
It’s over.
I saved her.
My breaths stutter out as I whip around, extending my palms to her face, checking for injury. “Jesus Christ.” I twist her jaw from side to side, wincing at the bruises. “Fuck, baby, are you okay?”
She stares at me, lips trembling. “I think I’m…” Her eyes dip. Flare. The color drains from her face as her body begins to tremble. “Oh my God.”
I frown, shake my head a fraction. It’s not sinking in. I’m too wrapped up in her battle wounds, her trauma, her fear. Bending down, I sprinkle kisses on her cheeks, tasting warm tears as my hands cup her porcelain face. “Hey. Look at me. Talk to me.”
“You…” A croak. Then a horrible wail erupts from her throat, morphing into a cry for help. “Somebody call an ambulance!”
That’s when it registers.
The pain.
Swallowing, I dip my chin, peering down at the pool of crimson blooming on the front of my shirt. There’s a knife tear sliced into my oxford button-down, the one she saw in a store window two weeks ago and said I had to have. The pinstripes were pastel blue, just like my eyes.
My fingers lift in slow motion, lightly grazing over the knife wound carved into my stomach. Blood puddles beside our feet, dribbling onto my sneakers. There’s a lot of it. I don’t know how I missed getting stabbed.
Two sluggish blinks, and I glance back up, taking in the look on her face.
Horror. Shock. Crippling devastation.
Black static warps my equilibrium. I wobble and sway as her panicked green eyes and open-mouthed agony skew in and out of focus.
I feel my legs buckling. Eyes rolling up. Knees crashing to pavement.
She screams, her fingers gripping the front of my shirt, trying to hold me up. “No! No, please. Stay with me. Stay with me!”
My head meets the sidewalk when she lowers me onto my back. I stare up at the sky as the sun disappears behind a wall of clouds and gray. It’s going to rain soon. We didn’t bring an umbrella.
Little droplets splash across my face.
Not rain.
Tears.
I want to tell her how much I love her, spill my heart out before it takes its final beat.
There is so much to say. So much left to do.
Blood crawls up my throat, gargling the words.
I cough. Choke. Warm liquid seeps out from the corner of my mouth as I try to find her eyes.
She hovers over me, her beautiful, broken face replacing my view of the charcoal sky.
Her lips are moving, but I can’t hear her. There’s a metallic ringing in my ears.
I’m far away. Fading out.
Sweat slicks my skin. My body shivers, everything ice cold.
No, no, no.
I’m not ready. Not like this. Our story is just beginning.
But finality doesn’t care who’s ready. It just is. I always said I’d rather die for something than live for nothing…
I just never thought it would be the other way around.
Silence washes over us.
And then—
“Cut!”
The sound of the director’s voice shakes me back to reality, an uproar of cheering drowning out the echo of Willa’s wails.
I blink the fog from my eyes as my vision readjusts to the television screen. Apparently, I zoned out viewing the raw footage I’d saved from that last day of filming Come What May .
I watch the TV as the camera pulls away from my face and I lift up on my elbows.
My tongue pokes out, and I still recall the taste of the edible fake blood dribbling from the corner of my mouth.
Corn syrup. Sweet and sticky. It took a few moments for my mind to clear, for the method actor in me to take a back seat to the real Lex.
Willa extends a hand on the screen, helping me to my feet. “Holy shit, Lex. Holy shit.” She jumps at me, tackling me in a tight hug, nearly sending me back to the concrete. “We did it! That was it. I feel it. That was the one.”
Willa’s voice floods the living room of my condo.
Stevie and I are two nights into our temporary pit stop in Los Angeles while I finalize commitments and pack up my things.
I guess I was feeling nostalgic.
The television flickers brightly in the dark room, a slideshow of ancient memories. Everyone claps, hugs, pumps their fists in the air.
My director races toward me as the camera continues to record, yanking me into another hug and slapping a hand against my back. “That was money, baby! Real fucking money.”
Fellow actors and production crew filter through, the woman who played my attacker shaking my hand, her pride shimmering back at me through a watery smile. Everyone was so happy that day. Fulfilled.
We had done it.
We’d wrapped up one of our final days of filming Come What May .
I keep watching as on-screen me saunters off the blocked-off sidewalk, snatching a water bottle from one of the assistants and chugging it back.
My gaze then pans across the set, absorbing the organized chaos.
The smiles, tears, comradery. I knew we had made something special.
Something I thought was going to touch millions.
And I felt so damn empty.
There was a hollow ache in my chest where happiness should have been.