23. Marcus

23

Marcus

The California sun streams through my bedroom window, mocking me with its cheerfulness. It’s Christmas morning, and I’m alone in a bed that’s far too big. The empty space beside me is like a void.

I pick up my phone to video call Seb but then stop myself. It’s the early hours of the morning in New Zealand. I’ve got hours to wait until I can see Seb’s face, hear his voice.

I never expected to be so dependent on one person.

This last year has been a revelation of how much one person can mean to me. Having a genuine connection with Seb has been my anchor in a sea of superficiality.

But it’s not the thought of how much I need Seb that has my stomach clenching this morning.

Between the calls I received from Seb and Saskia yesterday, I sent a message to my father wishing him a Merry Christmas. I’d written and rewritten it five times before settling on a benign message:

Merry Christmas, Dad. I hope you’re doing well.

My phone shows it has been read, but there’s no reply.

Why does seeing nothing make me feel sick?

It’s a silent reminder that I don’t deserve even the most basic acknowledgment.

Again, I have an overwhelming urge to call Seb. Just to remind myself there’s one good person in the world who will always answer my calls.

Instead, I check my socials. Seeing the inpouring of comments wishing me happy holidays and exclaiming over the image I posted of myself in an elf costume last night soothes me a little.

People like me. I am worthy. I am enough.

I force myself out of bed, down a protein shake, then head to my home gym and make myself do a workout.

I try to breathe and focus, but thoughts about the lack of reply from my father sit on the fringes of my consciousness.

He’s always messaged me back on Christmas before. Sometimes, it’s the only time I hear from him all year.

But Christmas Day is now over in New Zealand, so it appears even that yearly contact has gone.

When I was a child, my father used to call me Sport and ruffle my hair when he came home from work. He’d even started teaching me to play golf, though I was terrible at it. “You’ll get there, son,” he’d say, his hand warm on my shoulder. “Just keep trying.”

But after everything happened, he stopped touching me completely. His eyes would slide past me at dinner, like looking at me was physically painful. He’d leave any room I entered.

When he announced he was sending me to boarding school, it was a massive relief to both of us.

I haven’t seen him in person since I moved to America, and now it appears he has completely discharged his paternal duties.

I push my body through a workout until I’m a heavy, sweaty mess.

Then I go to the shower and turn it up to scalding, so the water beating down on me is nearly unbearable.

The steam fogs the bathroom.

I use my hand to wipe away the condensation on the mirror so I can see my reflection properly.

I stare at myself in the mirror.

I’m Marcus Johnson. I’m a Hollywood star. People love and admire me.

I continue to stare until the mirror fogs over again, until my reflection grows more and more indistinct, mist blurring out my features, until I’m nothing more than a ghost of myself.

When I finally make it out of the bathroom, I check my phone again.

Still no response from my father.

It’s stupid how much it hurts, how much I still crave even the smallest sign that he could see me as something other than a reminder of what he lost.

But no matter how many magazine covers I grace or how many box office records I break, it’ll never be enough to make him look at me properly again.

At least it’s now late enough that I can video call Seb without feeling guilty.

Seb answers on the second ring, the sound of traffic in the background. He props me up on the center console of his car so I can see his profile, lit by the early-morning sun. His hair is its usual mess of curls, and there’s a slight furrow between his brows as he concentrates on the road. He’s wearing one of his science pun T-shirts—this one has a picture of lots of test tubes in the shape of a tree and reads Oh, Chemistree, Oh, Chemistree at the bottom.

Just seeing him loosens the tightness in my chest.

“Hey,” he says. “Merry Christmas.”

“Thanks. Where are you off to?”

“Just on my way to weigh the chicks. Turns out endangered species don’t take holidays.”

“Don’t let those chicks sweet-talk you into giving them extra fish. I know how weak you are for a cute face.”

Seb laughs. “I am a sucker for a cute face. That is true.”

He switches on his indicator, flicking his eyes between the road and the phone.

“How did you sleep?” he asks.

Seb knows I’m plagued constantly by nightmares. Although I’ve never shared with him the details of my nightmares.

“Not too bad,” I lie. “So, how did the rest of Christmas with the Kleggs clan go?”

Seb shrugs. “It was the Saskia show as usual, but I’m used to it.”

Fuck. The look on his face cuts me.

“That sucks,” I say.

“Yeah, it does sometimes,” Seb replies.

I haven’t ever really talked to Seb about his family dynamics because I’m scared of where that conversation might lead, whether he’ll ask me about my family.

I think that’s why things with Seb work. He never demands more of me than I can give.

But now, seeing that look on his face, I want Seb to tell me how he feels about the way his parents have treated him as the understudy his entire life.

But how can I expect him to confide secrets in me when I’m unwilling to offer any in return?

So, instead, I chicken out and go for the easy conversation route.

“How are your parents liking Auckland?”

“Mum complains about the traffic every half-hour, and she doesn’t like the humidity, but otherwise, they seem to have settled in well.”

“Oh, that’s good,” I say.

Seb’s forehead creases. “Things seemed slightly tense between Tom and Saskia. Has she said anything to you about it?”

Fuck.

Seb and I normally skirt around the topic of Saskia like it’s fenced off with hazard warning tape.

“She’s told me he’s been working long hours, and they’ve had a few fights about it,” I say carefully.

His forehead lines get even deeper. “Maybe I should be a good brother and check in with her more often. I don’t really catch up with her that much.”

I shift uncomfortably. Saskia and Seb are too different to ever be close, but I’m sure I’m also a big reason why Seb keeps his distance from Saskia. He has to conceal such a major part of his life from her.

But keeping our relationship a secret is Seb’s idea, not mine.

“Saskia got pissed off at Mum because she was dropping major hints about grandchildren,” Seb continues as he stops the engine of his car. “I got slightly annoyed that they didn’t even mention the possibility that I could have kids one day. It’s like they’ve completely disregarded the idea that as a gay man, I could also be a parent.”

My stomach clenches.

“Do you want kids?” I ask before I can stop myself.

“Yeah, probably. I like the idea of being a dad.”

For a second, I imagine Seb as a father. Sharing his passion for learning with his child, patiently explaining complex concepts in that endearing way he does.

I shiver. I can’t cope with the idea of being a parent, being responsible for guiding an innocent life through this messy world.

“I never want children,” I say definitively.

“Oh, right.” Seb swallows. He fiddles with his seatbelt. “Maybe I’ll concentrate on being a great uncle to this brood of children Saskia is supposed to be producing.”

I can see the disappointment he’s trying to conceal from me.

Fuck.

This is why I shouldn’t have ever started something with Seb. I can never be what he needs.

But I’m too selfish not to have him in my life.

If I were a better person, I would end things between us. Let him be free to date the guy Saskia wants to set him up with, find a nice guy who will be around all the time, who can give him everything he deserves.

“You better go weigh those chicks of yours,” I say. “And I’ve got to get ready for Jake’s Christmas extravaganza.”

“Yeah, I guess I better get going.” He bites his lip and adjusts his glasses, pushing them up his nose. “Talk later, okay?”

“Yeah. Later.”

I’m still unsettled by my conversation with Seb when I arrive at Jake’s house.

Jake’s house is a modernist monstrosity perched on a Hollywood hill, all sharp angles and gleaming glass. It’s the kind of place that screams, “I’ve made it,” so loudly that you can practically hear the echo bouncing off the canyon walls.

Jake materializes at the door, martini in hand. “There’s my favorite client! Merry Christmas, you beautiful bastard.”

He ushers me inside, his hand on my back feeling more like a cattle prod than a friendly gesture. The house is full of the Hollywood elite, all air kisses and fake laughter.

The chatter and clinking glasses grate on my already frayed nerves.

It’s not until Jake pauses by the bar and orders me a drink that he scans me up and down, his gaze lingering on the shadows under my eyes.

“Rough night, sunshine? I have to say, you’re currently looking less ‘Hollywood heartthrob’ and more ‘hungover frat boy.’”

Fuck.

I don’t know why, but I always feel Jake’s criticism sharply. Maybe it’s because, on some level, I feel like a construction of Jake’s. He took a know-nothing university student from New Zealand and turned me into one of the most recognizable men on the planet.

“I just didn’t sleep very well last night,” I say.

“Don’t forget, that face of yours is your meal ticket. And mine. You’ve got that Ralph Lauren shoot in two days. It doesn’t do either of us any good if you’re looking like you’re auditioning for a before picture in a skincare ad.”

“Maybe I’m trying to corner the market on the relatable-mess demographic.”

Jake just gives me a look.

“I’m going to introduce you to Ethan Steele tonight. Rumor has it he’s been offered a role in Nix Spencer’s upcoming film Shadows of the Fallen . It’ll be great if your name is in the conversation when they start talking about supporting roles.”

“Are you telling me I should make sure I charm him?” I ask.

“I’m telling you it might be worth your while to play nice with him.” Jake waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

I take a step back. “I’ve told you before, I’m in a relationship.”

“Yeah, but it’s an open relationship, right? Isn’t that how you guys do it?”

I arch an eyebrow. “Who exactly is ‘you guys?’”

Jake waves his hand dismissively. “Don’t get offended. Just most of the gay relationships I’ve known in Hollywood have always been open. I thought that was one of the advantages of being in a relationship with a guy. Guys get it.”

His words stop me short.

Even though Seb seemed happy to promise me exclusivity, I can’t help feeling guilty that all I can offer is seeing each other a few weekends a year at various locations around the world. But the thought of another guy touching him drives me absolutely crazy.

For me, abstaining from hooking up with other guys is easy. It goes back to the same problem I’ve always had. Dining on hamburgers after eating steak just leaves me craving more steak. I knew if I messed around with another guy, I’d be on the next plane home to New Zealand so I could physically touch Seb.

But Jake’s reaction reminds me of how unusual our situation is.

“Well, I’m an exception to your rule,” I say stiffly.

“I think you ought to reconsider that. Talk to your man about it. You know getting someone off can get you ahead in this game.”

“Do you ever actually listen to the words coming out of your mouth?” I ask.

Jake shrugs. “I don’t make the rules. Everything you do is about your career. Who you date, who you’re friends with, where you go on vacation, everything. I thought you understood that.”

I swallow hard. “I do understand that.”

“And you want to be the best. Don’t you, Marcus?”

My drive for universal adoration, wanting to get the best roles, be the best actor possible is the one constant in my career.

I want to be worthwhile. I want my life to mean something.

I want to atone.

“You know I want to be the best,” I say.

“Hey, I’m not saying you can’t be in an exclusive relationship if that’s what you want. But you need it to be with someone who can help your career. You need someone who will make social media go nuts when you post pictures of the two of you. You need someone who looks good on the red carpet next to you.”

“I need him,” I say quietly.

Jake looks at me, his eyes narrowing in a mix of confusion and concern.

“Marcus,” he says, his voice uncharacteristically gentle, “I get it. You think you’ve found something real. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned in this world, it’s that everything is temporary. Relationships, fame, success—it can all disappear in an instant.”

My heart starts to pound.

Isn’t that one of the first lessons I ever learned?

Everything is temporary. Nothing lasts forever.

I don’t know if I can handle applying that concept to Seb.

Jake leans in closer, his breath smelling faintly of olives.

“I’m just looking out for you, kid. You’ve got the world at your feet right now, but one wrong move, and it all comes crashing down.”

Before I can respond, Jake’s attention is caught by someone across the room.

“Just think about what I said,” he mutters before plastering on his megawatt smile and steering me toward another group of guests.

The party continues in a blur of designer outfits and forced laughter. Champagne flows like water, and everyone’s smile is as plastic as the surgeon-crafted noses that populate the room.

Jake introduces me to Ethan Steele, and I pump out every ounce of charm I possess but pretend I don’t see the speculative look in his eyes.

No matter what Jake says, there’s no way I’m hooking up with anyone besides Seb. There’s so much I can’t give Seb that he deserves, but I can at least give him fidelity.

It’s not until I’ve called for my car and am waiting by the door that Jake approaches me again.

“Here.” Jake hands me a branded blister pack, the pharmaceutical company’s logo clearly visible. “Call this a bonus Christmas present.” He winks at me.

“What is it?”

“Ambien. Everyone uses it to ensure their beauty sleep. Take some tonight and the makeup artist at the Ralph Lauren shoot will thank you.”

“I don’t take drugs,” I say.

Jake waves his hand dismissively. “It’s prescription stuff. It’s perfectly legit. Everyone uses it.”

There’s no point in offending Jake, so I put his offering in my jacket pocket. “Okay. Well, there’s my car. I should get going.”

“Merry Christmas, Marcus,” he says.

Merry Christmas . Jake’s shark-like grin.

Merry Christmas. Saskia’s smile and complete innocence as she tried to recruit me to convince Seb to go on a date.

Merry Christmas. The message to my father that remains unanswered.

I’m trying to sleep, but my brain is whirling. I can’t shut it off.

One a.m.

Two a.m.

Three a.m.

To distract my brain, I scroll through my social media pages.

Erica posted today a video that I filmed last week. In it, I’m strumming a guitar and singing a few lines of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” before wishing everyone happy holidays. The caption reads:

A little Christmas serenade for the best fans in the world. Thank you for another amazing year .

People across the world, my fans, are rushing to wish me a Merry Christmas back.

Normally, seeing all the people who adore me soothes something deep inside me.

But tonight, it just makes me feel hollower.

They don’t know me. They have no idea who I really am.

I have a craving to talk to Seb. But it’s midnight in New Zealand. I can’t wreck his sleep.

Instead, my brain focuses on the look of disappointment on Seb’s face when I said I didn’t want kids. It’s part of what I’ve always been so worried about with Seb. I will never be able to be what he deserves.

I close my eyes again, but images flash through my mind like a demented slideshow: Seb’s disappointed face, Jake’s knowing smirk, my father’s face the last time I saw him, disgust etched into every line.

The darkness of the room amplifies every doubt, every fear. My heartbeat thunders in my ears, a relentless drumbeat that accompanies the churning in my mind.

I always work so hard to block off memories, but my resistance is low tonight, and the floodgates open.

A finger painting curling at the edges, colors fading in sunlight. Empty orange bottles lined up like dominoes on a marble counter. A lullaby, soft and lyrical. Water smelling of cold and moss and minerals. Footsteps growing fainter down a hallway, each step an accusation.

And then my father’s voice, words that never actually came out of his mouth, but his expressions, his actions, told me quite clearly.

You will never be enough. Nothing you do will make up for your sins.

I can’t take it anymore.

I need to make it stop.

I switch on the light and stumble into the lounge.

There, lying innocently on the coffee table, is the blister pack of pills Jake gave me.

As I stare at them, a memory of my mother’s face comes back to me. Her gaunt and haggard face, the desperation that seemed to be in her eyes when she gulped down her medication.

But I just need to sleep.

Everything will be so much better if I manage to get a decent night’s sleep.

With a shaky hand, I pop out a pill from the blister pack.

The pill in my hand is such a benign color. Baby pink.

Surely something this color should help me more than harm me, right?

I swallow the pill.