24. Seb

24

Seb

The university year begins in February with a frantic juggle of research and teaching classes. To make tenure, I need to publish scientific papers regularly in well-respected journals in my field.

My mother starts fretting I’m working too hard and not socializing enough.

To appease her, when I see a social media post about someone forming an LGBTQ+ team to play in a recreational soccer league, I decide to join.

I was pushed into playing soccer as a kid by my dad, who quickly realized my scrawny physique wouldn’t hold up on the rugby field.

I’d tolerated soccer then, but I find myself really enjoying it now. Mainly because the Rainbow Rascals turns out to be a great group of guys. I spend most of my time surrounded by either academics or conservationists or talking to Marcus, so it’s a nice change to interact with a diverse group of guys where the only things we have in common are our LGBTQ+ identity and enjoyment of soccer.

And there’s the added interest of the romance playing out in front of us, as two of our teammates, Tim and Jamie, are practically falling in love every week right before our eyes.

Tim is a science teacher, and Jamie works at the same school as him as the sports coordinator. There’s an age gap between them, but it doesn’t seem to matter. The way they look at each other… It’s like they’ve both discovered something precious and unexpected.

“They’re definitely fucking,” Scott, the team captain, says at the pub after practice one day. Tim and Jamie have stayed back at the ground to practice kicking some goals, which has given the rest of us an opportunity to speculate about exactly what is going on between them.

“How do you know?” Jared, another teammate, asks.

“Jamie turned me down when I propositioned him, which means he must be getting it elsewhere.” Scott shrugs as only an extremely good-looking, successful guy with oodles of self-confidence can shrug off a rejection.

When Tim and Jamie arrive, Jamie’s skin definitely looks like it may have been in contact with Tim’s beard quite recently, which definitely provides some evidence to support Scott’s theory.

Jamie flushes after being on the receiving end of Scott’s wide grin.

Smirks are exchanged around the table, but we let the conversation drift back to other topics to avoid embarrassing them.

But I can’t help my eyes drifting to Tim and Jamie, and jealousy pierces me.

It seems like such an innocent, pure relationship. Two nice guys who both work at the same school, who spend lots of time together, who make each other laugh.

I’m with one of the most beautiful men in the world. The man People just voted again as the sexiest man alive.

Yet I’m jealous of Tim and Jamie. The little glances they exchange, the fact they get to share the small moments of their day-to-day lives.

It contrasts so much with my experience of a relationship. This constant ache of wanting someone, missing someone.

Sometimes, I think I can feel every single molecule of water in the Pacific Ocean that separates Marcus and me. It’s a constant reminder of how far apart we are and how much of our lives we’re missing out on together.

Marcus’s schedule is impossible, with back-to-back filming commitments, endless promotional tours, and photo shoots that seem to span every time zone. It’s like he’s trying to cram a lifetime of work into every month.

But even his level of fame doesn’t seem to satisfy him. It’s never enough. Every time he misses out on a role, he takes it so hard.

It’s something about him that I don’t understand.

I’m thinking about Marcus as I head home from soccer practice. I’m driving cautiously as my ancient Toyota Corolla, which has more rust than paint, is starting to make a concerning rattle every time I hit fifty km/h.

I’m just exiting the motorway when my phone starts to chime.

It’s Saskia.

“Hey, sis, what’s up?” I say brightly. I’ve found myself doing this with Saskia recently, overcompensating because I feel bad I’m such a shitty brother for keeping an important part of my life from her.

“It’s Dad,” she says, and my whole body goes cold like I’ve been dunked in icy water.

Because I’ve known Saskia my entire life, and I’ve never heard her voice sound like this before. Hollowed out.

My whole body shaking, I pull off to the side of the road.

“What happened?” I ask, and I can barely get the words out past the lump in my throat.

“He’s had a heart attack. He’s been rushed to hospital now.”

“Which hospital?” I manage to ask through numb lips.

“Auckland City.”

“I’m heading right there now.”

“I’ll see you there.”

My foot feels like lead on the accelerator, and I have to force myself to ease up.

This can’t be happening. My father has always been a permanent, unmovable fixture in my life, as reliable as the tides.

My car starts to splutter like it’s reflecting my inner turmoil, choking and sputtering as it struggles to keep going.

I focus on my breathing, trying to steady it into a rhythm that will calm my heart and clear my mind enough to drive safely.

I want Marcus.

The need for him overwhelms me like a wave. I just want to talk to him, hear his voice.

It’s two a.m. in Los Angeles, but I know Marcus was attending the premiere of his co-star’s new indie film tonight. We had plans to talk after I got home from training.

Marcus’s erratic sleep patterns worry me, especially as he seems to now rely on prescription medication to knock him out when he wants to sleep, but right now, knowing he’ll be awake to answer my call feels like a lifeline. My hand shaking, I get my phone and call him.

“Hey, you,” Marcus says, his voice husky.

“My dad’s had a heart attack,” I blurt out.

“Oh my god, Seb.” The playfulness completely disappears from Marcus’s voice. “Is he okay?”

“I don’t know. He’s been rushed to hospital. I’m going there now.”

“Let me know as soon as you hear anything,” he says.

“I will.”

But I don’t end the call. Instead, I stay on the line, drawing strength from the sound of his breathing.

“What can I do for you now?” Marcus asks softly.

“Just talk to me. I need to drive to the hospital, and I need something to keep me from spiraling into worst-case scenarios.”

“Of course,” Marcus says.

So Marcus’s voice becomes my anchor as I navigate through traffic. He seems to instinctively know what I need, keeping up a stream of conversation about his day and Hollywood gossip that requires no response but gives me something to latch onto, keeping the worst of my fears out of my mind.

The car park is surprisingly full for this time of night. I finally squeeze into a spot between a ute and a compact car, my hands shaking as I turn off the ignition. For a moment, I just sit there, staring at the hulking shape of the hospital building as Marcus’s voice continues to wash over me.

“I’m here now,” I say finally, cutting through his sentence. “I better go.”

I want to keep talking to Marcus, but Saskia will be inside the hospital. And how would I explain to my sister why I’m talking to her best friend?

“I’m here if you need me. Anytime,” he says softly.

“I know,” I reply back just as softly.

I end the call and climb out of my car.

The automatic doors slide open with a hiss, releasing a gust of air-conditioned antiseptic hospital smell. My voice sounds distant and unfamiliar as I ask at the information desk about my father. The receptionist directs me to the cardiac unit on the third floor.

The elevator ride feels endless. When the doors finally open, I step into a hushed corridor. Muted beeps and murmurs float from various rooms.

I round a corner and find Mum and Saskia in a waiting area, huddled together on uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs. Mum’s face is pale, her eyes red-rimmed, and I’m struck by how old she suddenly looks.

Saskia glances up as I approach.

“Seb,” she says, her voice cracking slightly.

As I reach them, Mum stands and pulls me into a fierce hug. Over her shoulder, I meet Saskia’s eyes, and my own fear is reflected back at me.

“They’ve rushed him into surgery,” Mum says. “I’ve never seen him look so pale…”

I exhale slowly. “I’m sure they’re doing everything they can.”

I sink into a chair next to Saskia, the plastic cold and unyielding beneath me.

The silence stretches between us, broken only by the rhythmic beeping of monitors and the squeak of nurses’ shoes on the linoleum floor. Mum’s hands twist in her lap, her wedding ring catching the harsh fluorescent light.

Saskia’s phone beeps.

“Is that Tom?” Mum asks.

“No. It’s Marcus. I just messaged to tell him what’s happened,” she says.

Shit. I’m guessing Marcus hasn’t mentioned he already knew from me.

“Where’s Tom?” I ask.

“He’s in Australia. He’s got a client dinner he couldn’t get out of, but I think he’s going to try to catch a flight tonight after that.” There’s something brittle in Saskia’s expression.

Over the next few hours, we alternate between silence and trying to reassure ourselves and each other. Dad’s fit and healthy. He’s only sixty-five. Because Mum was with him when he had the heart attack, he got medical attention quickly.

But words of comfort are difficult to maintain when a nurse comes out to tell us Dad’s arteries are more damaged than they first anticipated, and they’re having to graft multiple new blood vessels to restore proper blood flow to his heart.

“Touch and go” are never words you want to hear associated with someone you love.

Time blurs into an endless loop of watching the clock, fielding calls from concerned relatives, and trying to interpret every facial expression of the medical staff passing by.

My eyes burn with exhaustion, and the harsh hospital lighting drills into my skull.

I send a few messages to Marcus, but he doesn’t reply. It’s the middle of the night in LA, so I don’t really blame him.

I find myself cataloging useless details—the number of ceiling tiles, the pattern on the nurse’s scrubs, the flicker of the exit sign—anything to distract from the gnawing worry in my gut.

We finally get news that Dad is out of surgery, but touch and go is still applied to him. The surgeon explains that the next forty-eight hours are critical.

“You can sit with him if you like,” she says.

Nothing could prepare me for the sight of my father lying in an ICU bed, hooked up to what seems like a hundred machines, each one monitoring a different vital sign.

It’s more waiting, hoping.

Mum, Saskia, and I have run out of words to try to reassure each other, and we just sit there, lost in our own thoughts. The steady hiss of the ventilator becomes a grim lullaby as we sit by his bed.

Dawn comes creeping through the cracks in the curtain, and the hospital starts to wake up around us, but Dad’s status remains unchanged.

When the door to Dad’s room opens, I wearily raise my gaze, expecting to see another nurse. Instead, I find myself staring into a pair of familiar, worried eyes.

My heart stops.

Marcus.

Here. Now.

Am I hallucinating? Have I reached that point of extreme tiredness where the boundaries between wishful thinking and reality start to blur?

“What are you doing here?” The words are out of my mouth before I can think.

“Seb.” Saskia’s voice has an admonishing tone. Shit. In my shock at seeing Marcus, I’d forgotten she and Mum were witnessing this.

Saskia’s eyes fill with tears as she stands to hug Marcus.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe you’re here,” she says. “I didn’t expect you to come all this way.”

“Of course,” Marcus says, his eyes sliding to mine, his arms still around my sister. “There’s nowhere else I want to be right now.”

My stomach lurches, a dizzying mix of relief and panic washing over me. I grip the arms of my chair, resisting the urge to rush into his arms.

“How did you get here so fast?” Saskia asks as she pulls back from hugging Marcus.

“Private jet,” Marcus says. “I called in a favor.”

She breaks into a watery smile. “The benefits of being a Hollywood star, eh?”

“Borrowing private jets is definitely a perk,” he says.

He glances over at me, and I can see the question on his face.

Oh god.

He’s here for me, but Saskia thinks he’s here for her, and Marcus is asking me for guidance on what we should do.

But I can’t do this to Saskia. I can’t drop this news on her now.

Suddenly, I realize the damage I’ve caused by insisting we hide our relationship from Saskia.

Now, when I need Marcus the most, I have to deprive myself of him or else hurt my sister.

I want nothing more than to have Marcus’s arms wrapped around me, to cry into his chest, to feel his steady heartbeat against my cheek.

But that can’t happen.

Saskia sits back down, and Marcus perches on the arm of Saskia’s chair.

“I’m so glad you’re here.” Her voice is thick with unshed tears.

She starts to fill him in on what has happened so far. Marcus’s eyes flick to mine, a storm of emotions swirling in their depths. I curl my fingers into my palms, my nails biting into my flesh.

Silence descends after Saskia finishes talking.

I shift in my seat, the plastic creaking loudly in the quiet room.

Marcus clears his throat. “I think you could all use some caffeine. I’ll see if I can track down some decent coffee.”

As he walks past me, his hand brushes my shoulder—a fleeting touch, gone too quickly.

As soon as he’s closed the door behind himself, Saskia turns to me, her eyes blazing.

“I can’t believe you were so rude to Marcus when he turned up. You’ve made him feel awkward.”

No, Saskia, I was actually just surprised that my boyfriend put his extremely busy life on hold and came all this way to comfort me. But I can’t tell you that because I’ve always been worried about your reaction to our relationship and afraid you’ll make him choose between us.

I rub my forehead. “I was just surprised to see him.”

“Marcus has been my best friend for over a decade. He’s always been there for me through everything. And at the time when I need him…” Her voice chokes off. “When I need him the most, you’re acting like he doesn’t belong here.”

“I’m sorry.” My words feel weighted down by secrets and guilt. Like I’m apologizing to Saskia for more than she realizes. “I didn’t mean to make him feel uncomfortable.”

“Well, you did,” she says.

Shit. Saskia’s not going to back down from this.

I get it. I get that any emotion besides fear is a welcome distraction from the terror of potentially losing Dad. That lashing out at me gives her a sense of control in an uncontrollable situation. She’s using it as a distraction from her fear.

But arguing with her is stretching my nerves past what I can stand.

Any moment now, I’m going to snap out the truth at her. And that won’t help anyone.

“I can’t believe I have to deal with this on top of everything else,” she continues. “Why can’t you just be normal for once? It’s no wonder you’re always single and alone.”

“Saskia,” my mother says reprovingly.

My response wells up inside me, so I get to my feet, the chair scraping back harshly against the floor.

“I’m going to the restroom,” I mutter.

I stumble out of the room, my vision blurring. The fluorescent lights overhead pulse, matching the throbbing in my temples. I bump into a nurse, mumbling an apology as I continue down the corridor.

The men’s restroom sign swims into focus. I push through the door and stand by the sink, gripping the edge. My reflection stares back at me, a stranger with bloodshot eyes and a day’s worth of stubble. Turning on the tap, I splash cold water on my face. Unfortunately, the magical properties of water don’t manage to wash away the ache in my chest or the bitter taste of unspoken words in my mouth.

Taking a deep breath, I push open the restroom door.

The corridor stretches before me, but my eyes immediately lock onto a familiar figure approaching from the other end.

Marcus is navigating through the busy hallway, a cardboard tray of drinks in his hands. He hasn’t noticed me yet, and I just stare at him—the way his shirt pulls across his shoulders, the furrow between his brows as he concentrates on not spilling. Nurses and patients in the hallway do double-takes when they walk past him.

Then he glances up, and our gazes lock.

Wordlessly he veers to a door that leads to the stairwell, pushing through it.

My feet move of their own accord, following Marcus as if pulled by an invisible thread.

As I step through the door, the sterile hospital smell is replaced by the musty scent of the rarely used stairwell.

Marcus carefully puts the tray containing the drinks on the floor and pulls me to him, and finally, finally, I get what I need. His arms are around me, his familiar scent enveloping me. I bury my face in his neck, letting out the sob I’ve been holding back for hours.