28. Seb

28

Seb

Shit.

My head is still throbbing, but when I woke up and heard Saskia’s voice, there was no way I was going back to sleep.

“It’s my fault we didn’t tell you. Marcus wanted to tell you. I was the one who insisted we should keep it a secret.”

“Why?” There’s something almost plaintive in Saskia’s voice. She swallows. “Why didn’t you want me to know?”

“Because I thought you’d sabotage things between us.” I answer the question honestly. The time for lies and omissions has definitely passed.

My insecurity is to blame for this whole mess.

Part of me will always be in disbelief that Marcus Johnson wants me.

But I’ve just heard Marcus tell Saskia that he wouldn’t break it off with me even if she told him to. He told her I’m the best thing that has ever happened to him.

At some point, I’ve got to trust him. I’ve got to trust us.

“I wouldn’t have done that.” Her lips press into a thin line. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. And now, my husband is probably cheating on me and my brother and best friend have been lying to me for years.” Tears well in her eyes.

She’s playing the victim.

Anger surges in me, bright and sharp, and words suddenly tumble out of me.

“Oh, come on, Saskia, you’ve been riding roughshod over me my entire life. It’s always been about you and what you want. Are you honestly telling me you would have been okay with Marcus and me together?” My breathing is rough, ragged. “One of your first questions to him was whether he’d break it off with me if you asked him to. Don’t give me that bullshit and pretend you’d have been fine with us together.”

I can feel Marcus’s stare on me.

“I asked that as a test to see how serious he is about you,” she counters. “I was just being a good big sister.”

“Oh, stop spinning shit,” I say tiredly.

Saskia’s eyes narrow.

“I don’t have to listen to this. I can’t deal with this now, along with everything else happening in my life.” She stands abruptly and strides toward the door, her heels clicking like angry punctuation marks against the hardwood.

The slam of the door closing behind her reverberates through the room like a thunderclap.

For a few seconds, Marcus and I just stare at each other.

“Well, that went well,” Marcus drawls.

I rub my head, a hiss of pain escaping through clenched teeth. The throbbing has intensified, sending sharp spikes of agony behind my eyes.

Marcus’s expression softens, and he comes over to me, pulling me into his chest, cradling my head in his hand.

“You need to go back to bed, baby.”

He kisses my temple with lips so soft I can barely feel them, like the brush of a butterfly’s wings against my skin.

There’s a noise from the door.

Saskia’s standing there.

She’s staring at Marcus holding me like we’re a complex equation she can’t quite solve, her eyes darting between our faces as if searching for the missing variable that will help her understand.

“I forgot my handbag,” she says stiffly.

“Saskia…” I say as she retrieves her handbag from the coffee table.

Her eyes brim with tears.

“Not now, Seb,” she says, backing away.

This time, she closes the door normally rather than slamming it.

“She’ll come round,” I say.

“Yeah, I hope so.”

Marcus takes me back to bed.

He eases onto the bed beside me, pulling the covers over us, creating a cocoon of warmth.

But he’s barely settled down before he sits up, reaching for the nightstand. He extracts a small orange bottle, shakes out a pill, and dry-swallows it.

Concern flares inside me, but now is not the time to talk about his pill use.

When he settles back down, he puts an arm around me.

“I’m not used to seeing you so fired up,” he says quietly.

I shrug. “Yeah, well, I’ve had a lifetime of being her brother. It was bound to boil over at some point.”

Marcus’s fingers trace idle patterns on my arm.

“Thank you,” I say softly into the darkness.

Marcus’s fingers still. “For what?”

“For choosing me.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Shit. Have I overstepped by staying that?

Finally, his voice comes at me through the darkness. “It’s the least you deserve.”

The next day, I try to put the mess with Saskia out of my mind as Marcus and I drive to Mangawhai together. I’ve been looking forward to this for ages, wanting to bring Marcus to Mangawhai so he can see the fairy terns I’ve talked so much about. And now that my father is on the mend, I’m not concerned about being away for a night.

But it’s hard not to dwell on what happened with Saskia.

We need to give her time to calm down. There’s no way she can stay angry at her brother and best friend forever.

I do feel incredibly bad that at a time when she suspects Tom is cheating on her, when she needs support, she’s having to cope with this. It feels like we’re sprinkling salt into her wounds.

My car is back from the mechanic, so I drive, which makes Marcus grumble and me joke about him having to slum it.

I use my hand not on the steering wheel to thread my fingers through Marcus’s. He gives me a gentle squeeze in return.

I’ve never believed I deserve Marcus. That I’m good enough for him. One part of me still thinks this must be some elaborate prank, and any minute now, someone will jump out and yell, “Gotcha,” and reveal the hidden camera. I feel that even more after getting to know him, after discovering the hidden depths and innate kindness of this man.

Mangawhai comes into view as we drive over the hill. It’s a small coastal town sandwiched between endless blue ocean and rolling farmland. The town itself sprawls along the edge of the estuary. It used to be a quiet slice of New Zealand coastline, home to some of our most endangered birds, but it’s recently seen an uptick in development as Aucklanders flock to the lifestyle it offers with a less than two-hour drive from the city.

But all that development isn’t good for endangered birds.

I take Marcus straight to the beach to see the fairy terns.

Only some Department of Conservation vehicles are allowed on the beach, so I park as close as possible and then lead Marcus on the long trek across the dunes.

We trudge through the windswept landscape, sand whipping into places I’d rather not mention. Marcus doesn’t seem perturbed by the uncomfortable conditions. Maybe he’s just picturing this as prep for his next post-apocalyptic blockbuster?

“There’s the hide,” I say when I finally spot it, pointing to a small wooden structure against the backdrop of the dunes.

During the breeding season, there’s a ranger or volunteer here every day, watching over the chicks.

I say a quick prayer that the volunteer is someone like Ray, a retired farmer in his sixties who can spot a rare bird from a mile away but wouldn’t recognize a Hollywood A-lister if one tap-danced on his binoculars.

We duck into the hide, only to find not one but two volunteers inside. Darleen and Dot.

Shit. Darleen is a doctor’s receptionist. If she ever glances at the covers of the magazines in the waiting room where she works, she’s sure to recognize Marcus.

“Hey, Darleen. Dot,” I say hesitantly.

They are both facing out of the hide, binoculars at their eyes.

“Hiya, Seb,” Dot says happily.

“Uh…this is my boyfriend, Marcus,” I say. “I’ve brought him to see the fairy terns.”

Darleen turns to greet Marcus. Suddenly, her eyes widen, and she drops the binoculars on the floor with a thud. She blinks, then blinks again.

“Ah…umm…” she manages to say.

Meanwhile, Dot has shuffled forward, offering her hand for Marcus to shake.

“Oh, it’s so nice to meet you. Seb told me he had a boyfriend, but I didn’t actually believe him. I thought he was just fobbing me off to stop me setting him up. Anyway, it’s nice to know you do really exist.”

Great. It’s always good to know my love life has been filed under Urban Legends , alongside Bigfoot sightings and the existence of Auckland parking spaces.

“Yes, I really do exist,” Marcus says with one of his charming smiles.

She drops his hand and squints at him. “Say, I think I might have met you before.”

“I don’t think so,” Marcus says politely.

“Are you sure? You look very familiar.”

Marcus flicks a quick glance at me. I give a quick shrug because Saskia knows now, so there is no point in keeping it a complete secret anymore.

Besides, I’m fairly sure Darleen will educate Dot on exactly who Marcus is the moment we leave.

“I might look familiar because I’m an actor,” Marcus replies.

Dot’s eyebrows fly up in surprise. “Oh really? I don’t really follow much entertainment stuff. Would I know any shows you’ve been on?”

“Have you seen the remake of Ben Hur ?”

Her hand flutters in excitement. “I have seen that. Are you in it? Oh, that’s so exciting. I can’t wait to tell my husband. Were you one of the Roman soldiers?”

Marcus scratches his neck sheepishly. “Ah, no. I was actually Ben Hur.”

And there it is. The moment Dot’s neurons connect in the right pattern, and she realizes exactly who Marcus is.

The discovery seems to impact Dot’s ability to speak. She gapes at Marcus, her mouth hanging open as if she’s just witnessed a UFO landing on the beach.

“Oh, right,” she says finally.

She slides an incredulous look at me.

“Um…so I’m just going to show Marcus the birds,” I say.

“The adults are away feeding at the moment,” Darleen chokes out.

“Hopefully, they’ll come back soon.”

Turning away from the two shell-shocked volunteers, I move to the side of the hide closest to the fairy tern nest.

I raise my binoculars to my eyes. Unfortunately, the nest is virtually impossible to spot without an adult bird there because of how well-camouflaged it is.

But then, like a tiny fighter jet, an adult bird swoops in. Its marigold-yellow bill and black mask are unmistakable. I nudge Marcus, pointing as the bird drops to a shallow dent among the shells.

“Look through here,” I murmur, offering him the binoculars. As he peers through, I watch his face.

“Can you see the chick?” I ask.

Marcus gives a triumphant smile. “Yeah, I can. Man, it really blends into the shells.”

“I know. It’s basically invisible unless you know what you’re looking for. Camouflage is their survival strategy. Every other tern species nest in a colony. Only the fairy terns decide to go it alone.”

Leave it to New Zealand’s rarest bird to be the antisocial one. Although given how most group living situations turn out, maybe they’re onto something.

Marcus brings the binoculars back to his eyes, returning to where the fairy tern stands sentinel over its chick, a picture of fierce devotion.

We come home sandy from the beach. The university owns an old house at Mangawhai, which looks like it’s playing dress-up as a vintage postcard among the shiny new mansions, its weathered wooden planks and slightly crooked porch a defiant middle finger to the march of progress.

I don’t care about the level of comfort. It’s ours for the weekend.

After we’ve showered, we make dinner together. Marcus grates the zucchini for fritters while I whisk eggs and flour for the batter.

We talk about the conservation genetics and the other challenges fairy terns face due to their nesting sites overlapping with a human summertime playground.

As Marcus carefully mixes the zucchini into the batter, I’m struck by a sudden realization.

This is what I want. Exactly this. Marcus and I in mundane life moments together.

The force of my want knocks my breath away.

I want to spend my evenings and weekends with him. I want to make dinner and go to sleep with him and wake up with him and have him look after me when I’m sick and look after him in return. I want to argue about whose turn it is to do the dishes and compromise by doing them together. I want to build a life where our clothes mingle in the closet and our toothbrushes stand side by side.

Marcus’s phone starts to chime.

My feeling of contentment fades. Because I recognize the ringtone—the opening bars of “Money, Money, Money’” by ABBA. It’s Jake.

Marcus leaves the room, and I continue to make dinner, but my hands tremble as I pour the batter into the pan, causing uneven fritters. The sizzle of the fritters seems too loud in the sudden silence.

Marcus returns to the room, his jawline tense. He leans against the doorframe, the fading sunlight casting shadows that accentuate his perfect features.

“What did Jake want?” I ask.

“He’s just lined me up a shoot for a new Calvin Klein campaign.” Marcus tries to smile, but it dies on his lips.

“I have to get back before filming for Horizon starts anyway,” he continues.

“When is the shoot?” I ask in a low voice.

“Wednesday.”

Wednesday. Four days from now.

The pain is sharp and brutal.

“Seb,” Marcus says.

But I move the frying pan off the element, switch off the stove, and crowd into his space so I can kiss him.

Maybe it’s a way of stopping myself from saying everything I want to say.

This kiss is raw and almost feral, a clash of teeth and tongues. Marcus matches my intensity, fingers digging in, grasping at clothing, hair, anything to keep us anchored in this moment and not thinking about the future.

We stumble backward. Marcus’s back hits the wall with a thud. I pull at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against mine.

We break apart just long enough to yank our shirts over our heads. The moment we’re chest to chest, every one of my nerve endings fires, overwhelmed by the sensation of Marcus’s warm skin pressed against mine. I run my hands over Marcus’s sculpted torso.

Our kisses are messy, uncoordinated, punctuated by gasps and half-formed words.

His lips find my neck, and I arch into him as he sucks. I scrape my fingernails up his back.

It’s like we have a primitive need to mark our territories, to imprint ourselves on each other’s flesh. To leave visible reminders that we belong to each other.

To block out all those looming days ahead when we’re not together.

I’ve had Marcus to myself for three weeks. And it has left me greedy for more. Greedy to continue to have him as part of my day-to-day life. Greedy to have him all of the time.

My cock throbs painfully against the constraints of my shorts, begging for attention.

“Need you,” I gasp. And I’ve never meant those words before as much as I do them now.

I scan the kitchen, spotting the olive oil on the counter, and I lean over to grab it, nearly knocking it over in my haste.

Marcus’s eyes are glazed over with lust. He spins me, caging me over the counter, yanking down my shorts and boxers in one go.

And then he’s pressing an oil-slicked finger into me, but I reach back to knock his hand away.

“Just you,” I gasp.

Marcus understands my meaning.

He lines his cock up, teasing me with just the tip, making me whimper with need.

But I’m not in the mood for teasing.

I push back against him and take him in all the way in one swift motion, both of us groaning at the sensation.

The burning sting is right at the border of pleasure and pain, but I’m desperate for more, for deeper, for harder.

Marcus seems to understand because he knows my body as well as I do, reading every twitch and shudder.

He starts to move inside me, and my fingers dig into his forearms, my grip tightening with each thrust.

Am I trying to punish him?

Maybe I’m trying to punish myself.

Because Marcus is leaving me again.

He will always leave me.

The kitchen is filled with the sound of skin slapping skin and our labored breathing. The counter digs into my hips, a counterpoint to the soaring pleasure.

Marcus is inside me, pressed against me, his breath on my neck, but it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.

“Harder,” I say because that’s what I need. I need him to leave his mark on me, inside and out.

Marcus obeys, his hips snapping forward with bruising force, driving the breath from my lungs.

I’m out of my brain, sobbing with pleasure as Marcus continues to nail my prostate on every thrust. My legs shake, threatening to give out beneath me.

Marcus’s hand snakes around to grasp my cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. The dual stimulation is almost too much, pleasure building to an almost painful intensity.

I’m caught between pushing back onto him and thrusting into his hand, my body no longer under my control.

“Look at me,” Marcus demands, his voice rough.

I turn my head, meeting his gaze in the reflection of the kitchen window. The sight of us together, flushed and sweaty, pushes me closer to the edge. Marcus’s eyes are dark with desire, never leaving mine as he continues to pound into me.

Then his rhythm falters, his thrusts becoming erratic. His eyes squeeze shut, his mouth falling open in a silent cry.

A low, guttural moan escapes Marcus’s throat as he comes. His grip on my hips tightens, pulling me flush against him. I feel every twitch, every throb of his orgasm.

Shit. Seeing Marcus’s face, feeling his warmth inside me, speeds my own orgasm. It catches me unaware, surging through me like a seismic event, shaking me to my core.

In the aftermath, we slump against the counter, our breathing ragged. Marcus peppers kisses along my shoulder blade, his stubble scratching deliciously against my oversensitive skin.

“Holy fuck Seb,” he says, his voice a whisper against my skin.

“I love you,” I say, breaking the cardinal rule of not ever making a romantic declaration in association with orgasms, but I don’t care.

I’m bursting with my love for this man, and he deserves to know it.

What’s more, I deserve for him to know it. I deserve to let the man I love know he has my whole heart.

Marcus slowly pulls out. The loss makes me feel empty and cold.

He staggers to the kitchen chair, his hand over his face, his fingers pressed against his eyes.

“You don’t have to say it back,” I say. “I just want you to know.”

“Seb…”

Marcus looks up, and his face is in agony.

His shoulders are trembling, and his eyes are bright with tears.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t want you to love me,” he says.