32. Seb

32

Seb

I count down to my trip to London with equal parts anticipation and anxiety.

Life is pretty crap all around at the moment.

Everyone on the fairy tern team is depressed about the loss of one of our breeding pairs. Worse, there are rumors that a new golf resort will be built in Mangawhai that would put even more pressure on the fairy tern habitat, disrupting the delicate ecosystem we’ve fought so hard to protect. Unfortunately, it appears some people believe the right of rich tourists to chase a white ball around a golf course is more important than the right of a species that has occupied that environment for millions of years to continue to exist.

Things at Rainbow Rascals are downbeat as well, despite the fact we’re winning most of our games.

Tim is so miserable without Jamie, and it seems to infect the whole team. For me, seeing his despair amplifies my own feelings of loneliness.

The only thing that has provided some distraction from my own heartache is trying to be a better brother to Saskia. Since her split with Tom, she’s come over a few times armed with ice cream and a determination to watch the trashiest reality TV shows she can find. I’ve never seen this side of my sister before—sprawled on my couch in old sweatpants, her usually perfect hair twisted into a messy bun, demolishing a pint of ice cream while viciously critiquing the fashion choices of reality TV contestants.

“Look at his hair,” she’ll say through a mouthful of chocolate chip. “It looks like he stuck his head in a cotton candy machine and then got electrocuted.”

It feels like we’re kids again, sharing secret jokes, except now we’re bonding over watching attractive idiots try to find love in improbable scenarios. It’s nice to see my usually polished sister let her guard down, even if it took her marriage imploding to get us here.

But despite having something else to occupy my downtime, I still miss Marcus so much. Even more now that it feels like there are so many insurmountable barriers between us. I need to physically see him, touch him, to remind myself why being with him is so right.

Finally, it’s time to board my flight in Auckland and begin the thirty-hour trek to London.

I should really start listing professional long-haul passenger on my CV. It’s becoming my most practiced skill.

I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep doing this.

The words circulate like a planet trapped in an unstable orbit, spiraling closer and closer to an inevitable collision. How can I keep doing this for years and years without my heart shattering?

I’m barely human when I stumble out of the arrivals gate, but I manage to find the chauffeur waiting to drive me in a limousine and deliver me to the private elevator that goes up to Marcus’s suite on the top floor of the Ritz.

And there’s Marcus, looking unfairly gorgeous in soft gray sweats, his face breaking into a smile that makes my heart stutter.

“Hey, you,” he says softly.

His arms are around me, and suddenly, the thirty hours of travel and all the subterfuge fade because I’m finally, finally touching him again.

And he’s kissing me like I’m the cure to a disease that’s been plaguing him.

I can’t help but moan into his mouth, my fingers tangling in his hair, anchoring myself to him.

We stumble toward the bedroom, shedding clothes like molting birds. Marcus’s eyes are dark with desire, but there’s something else in his expression—a vulnerability that makes my heart ache. He lays me down on the bed with a gentleness that contrasts sharply with the urgency of his kisses.

“Oh my god, Seb,” he breathes. “I’ve missed you so much.”

I can’t say the words back because missing doesn’t seem like a strong enough term for how I’ve felt being apart from Marcus this time.

I’ve craved him. I’ve felt his absence like a phantom limb, constantly aware of the space where he should be.

His lips trace a path down my neck, across my collarbone, down to my chest. Each kiss feels like a confession.

I arch into him, desperate for more contact. My hands roam his back, feeling the play of muscles beneath his skin. Touching Marcus has always been like touching a work of art come to life, all smooth planes and hard edges. I trace the dip of his spine, marveling at how perfectly he fits against me.

He prepares me with aching slowness, his fingers gentle but insistent. I’m trembling by the time he finally pushes inside me, the sensation overwhelming in its intensity. Marcus enters me slowly, inch by exquisite inch, and my flesh stretches to accommodate him. It’s a delicious burn, a perfect fusion of pleasure and pain that leaves me gasping.

Marcus pauses, his forehead resting against mine, our breaths mingling.

“You okay?” he whispers, and I nod, unable to form words.

My eyes sting as he starts to move, and it’s like every nerve ending in my body is lit up with sensation, expanding outward from where we’re joined and threatening to consume me entirely. I wrap my legs around him, pulling him closer, deeper, needing to eliminate any space between us.

It’s so exquisite, so perfect, to have Marcus like this, to feel him in the deepest part of me, to feel like we could potentially be one.

It’s been too long since I’ve had this. Far, far too long.

“You’ve ruined me for every other man,” Marcus groans against my neck.

He’s ruined me too.

In every other area of my life, I’m always so cautious and measured.

But with Marcus, I’ve always been reckless. I’ve always wanted him more than anything else. I’ve always been prepared to risk everything for just one more moment with him, consequences be damned.

My tears overflow, and he kisses them, his lips catching each droplet.

The taste of the salt from my tears mingles with the taste of our kisses.

Marcus continues to make love to me, the air thick with our shared breaths. Every touch, every kiss, every thrust feels like it’s rewriting my DNA, changing me at a molecular level.

“Seb,” Marcus finally chokes out, his voice strained. “I can’t… I’m going to…”

“It’s okay,” I gasp, pulling him even closer. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

And he does. With a cry that sounds almost pained, Marcus comes undone above me, inside me.

He stays inside me but stops moving, instead getting a hand between us, stroking me off. His hand on me is like a live wire, sending jolts of electricity through my body. Each stroke builds the tension higher, a coiled spring ready to release.

And I’m coming too, the climax ripping through me, creating a new universe of sensation. Every muscle in my body contracts, then releases in a rush of endorphins that leaves me trembling and gasping for air.

My face is still wet, and Marcus kisses my eyelids and cheeks before slowly pulling out of me.

After he’s cleaned me up with his usual tender care, he turns to face me, his eyes searching mine, both tenderness and sorrow swirling in their depths.

“I can’t handle hurting you,” he says softly.

“You’re not hurting me,” I lie.

Marcus’s expression shows he doesn’t believe me.

He’s right not to.

Because this will never be enough for me. And I know that, even if I’m currently struggling to admit it to myself.

And I think Marcus is beginning to realize it too.

We’re destroying each other. And I don’t see any other way forward.

A few days later, it’s a relief to escape Marcus with the excuse to catch up with Jamie.

Things between us are so intense. We’re having sex almost constantly, as if that can replace the conversations we need to have. Every touch feels like a desperate attempt to hold on to something that’s slipping away.

Unfortunately, Jamie isn’t the best person to spend time with if I’m trying to avoid thinking about love and heartbreak.

Because it’s obvious after less than a minute in the pub that Jamie is completely miserable without Tim.

Tim’s back in New Zealand, miserable without Jamie. Jamie is here in London, miserable without Tim.

Love just seems to be one giant pit of misery.

Jamie and I stick to generic conversation to start, but when I’m recapping our recent Rainbow Rascal game, I accidentally mention Tim.

“And Tim scored a great goal from outside the circle. Even the opposition clapped.”

Jamie tries to smile, but it’s a pale imitation of his usual grin. The strain is evident in his voice as he asks, “That’s great. And he’s…all right, is he? Tim, I mean.”

Shit. What should I say to that?

I hesitate, weighing my words carefully.

“I don’t know Tim that well,” I begin slowly, “but I get the feeling he’s not doing great at the moment. He seems…sad.”

Jamie swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly. Pain flickers in his eyes.

“He’s going through a tough time,” Jamie says, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m sure it’s been hard on both of you, you moving away,” I offer gently.

Jamie takes a long pull from his beer, his hand trembling as he sets the glass down. When he speaks again, his voice is strained. “No, it’s not me leaving. Something else happened.”

And then Jamie tells me about him and Tim, which starts as a simple story of two men finding love again after heartbreak but has the most screwed-up twist imaginable.

Fucking hell. And I thought things were screwed up between Marcus and me.

It’s obvious Jamie still wants to be with Tim but is too scared to tell him. I try to give him some advice, but I’m not sure it helps.

My phone beeps.

I’m about five minutes away.

Shit. I’d told Marcus to pick me up at eight p.m. But I never anticipated I’d fall into such a deep conversation with Jamie.

I glance up from my phone. “Sorry to do this, but I’ve got to head off.”

Jamie nods, quickly finishing his beer. “That’s fine. And thank you. I really appreciate you listening to the whole saga.”

“No worries. Relationships can be complicated sometimes.” The words feel heavy in my mouth, weighed down with unspoken meaning.

We stand and make our way through the pub. As we step outside, the cold London air is a shock compared to the warmth inside the pub.

“Thanks for everything, Seb. Enjoy the rest of your time in London,” Jamie says.

“Thanks.”

“You walking to the tube?” he asks.

“Ah, no, I’m good. Someone is picking me up.”

As if on cue, I hear the purr of Marcus’s Ferrari as it pulls up to the curb.

“Um…this is my ride here.”

Jamie’s eyebrows shoot up as he takes in the car. I can see questions forming in his mind, but thankfully, he doesn’t voice them.

Instead, he pulls me in for a quick hug. “Thanks for everything, man,” he says.

“Take care,” I reply. “I’m rooting for you guys.”

“Thanks.”

I open the door to Marcus’s car. As I slide in, I catch Jamie’s eyes widening in recognition as he spots Marcus. Shock overtakes his face. I guess he didn’t expect my pickup to be a Hollywood superstar.

“Everything okay?” Marcus asks, his eyes flicking between me and the road.

“Yeah,” I say.

“How was your catch-up?” he asks.

“It was good.” I don’t have the emotional energy to share Tim and Jamie’s story with Marcus right now.

Marcus smiles his charming smile, and I know it’s the fake one he gives everyone else. He usually doesn’t give it to me though.

“So, I thought we could go on a date,” he says.

I try to pump some enthusiasm into my voice. “Sure. Sounds good.”

Marcus drives us to a swanky rooftop bar in the heart of London. As we approach the entrance, I notice the long queue snaking around the block.

Awesome. The British do seem to love their queuing.

But I’ve forgotten I’m with a Hollywood movie star.

Marcus just strolls past everyone.

“Mr. Johnson,” the bouncer says, immediately unclipping the velvet rope, his eyes barely registering my existence.

Inside, crystal chandeliers cast a soft glow over the well-dressed patrons, and floor-to-ceiling windows offer a breathtaking view of the city skyline. I feel woefully underdressed in my casual clothes.

We’re barely seated at one of the VIP tables when a server appears, offering us a bottle of champagne compliments of the house. Marcus accepts with practiced grace while I fumble with the delicate flute.

As I take my first sip, I’m suddenly aware of the whispers of Marcus’s name around us, everyone craning their necks to catch a glimpse of him.

A glamorous blonde from the next table saunters over, her smile dazzling.

“I loved you in Midnight in Monaco ,” she gushes. “Would you mind if we got a selfie?”

Marcus obliges, flashing his megawatt smile as the women crowd around him for selfies. I sit there, feeling as if I’ve faded into the plush upholstery of our booth.

Marcus Johnson.

Marcus.

Marcus.

The whispers seem to be coming from the walls.

Everyone wants a piece of him.

I sip my champagne, watching Marcus as he heads to the restroom. He’s stopped every few feet by fans, and it seems like every gesture and laugh is perfectly calibrated for maximum effect. He’s in fairy-tern mode again, camouflaging with the rest of the beautiful and charming people, never revealing his true self.

I understand why he’s so good at this—he’s been performing for so long. Each perfect smile, each charming response is armor he forged in childhood, protecting himself from anyone getting close enough to see his pain.

It’s been so long since Marcus and I started. For almost all of my adult life, I’ve been hung up on the most beautiful man in existence.

I’ve had the privilege of being able to kiss him, touch him.

But I’ve never been able to truly call him mine.

And I never will.

That truth hits me hard.

Marcus warned me off him repeatedly in the beginning. He told me he was no good for me. He told me he would break my heart.

I ignored his warnings because all I could see was a chance to be with a gorgeous and charming guy.

In that way, am I any better than all the other people who have exploited Marcus over the years? Seeing Marcus purely as an object, a prize to win, even more so because he’s my sister’s best friend.

But that was before I really knew him. Before I discovered the man beneath the perfect exterior—the way his eyes light up when he’s truly interested in something, how he remembers every random animal fact I tell him, how gentle he can be when he thinks no one is watching. Before I fell in love with his quirks and vulnerabilities, the parts of himself he rarely shows to anyone else.

Sure, his beauty first drew me in—I’d challenge anyone not to be dazzled by Marcus Johnson. But what made me stay, what made me fall so completely in love with him, is everything else. The way he listens when I ramble about conservation, his unexpected kindness, his struggle to be better despite his demons. Even his flaws are precious to me because they’re part of who he really is, not who Hollywood wants him to be.

But my warm feelings toward Marcus fade abruptly when he returns to our table from the restroom. Because his pupils are pinpricks despite the dim lighting, and there’s a slight tremor in his hand as he picks up his drink. His usual fluid grace has an edge of jittery energy.

My stomach drops.

“What did you take?” I ask quietly.

Marcus adjusts his designer shirt cuffs, tugging them straight with methodical precision. “Just something to take the edge off.” His voice has that artificial smoothness like he’s reading from a script. “All the fans were getting to me.”

“You said you were going to cut back on the pills.”

“I am cutting back.” He gives me his trademark grin, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m completely in control of it, Seb. You don’t need to worry.”

“Really? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you need chemicals in your bloodstream just to get through a simple dinner.”

His expression hardens. “You don’t understand what it’s like. The constant pressure, everyone watching, judging…”

“You’re right. I don’t understand,” I reply.

The unspoken lies between us. The tragedy of his childhood explains so much about who he is now, this beautiful man who thinks he’s too broken to deserve help. But he can’t keep swallowing pills to keep his past at bay.

I take a deep breath and press on. “I don’t understand why you won’t talk to someone professional.”

“I don’t need therapy.” He signals the waiter for another drink, avoiding my eyes. “I need people to stop trying to fix me.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. Because isn’t that what I’ve been doing? Thinking my love could somehow heal him?

Marcus’s hands are shaking more noticeably now as he reaches for his fresh drink. My scientific brain catalogs the symptoms automatically—pupils constricted, tremors, mood swings. The clinical part of me knows these are warning signs. The part that loves him is terrified.

“Give me your car keys,” I say.

“What? I’m fine to drive.”

“You’re not fine. You’re high.” I keep my voice low, conscious of the other diners around us. “Give me the keys.”

For a moment, I think he’s going to argue. Then his shoulders slump and he hands them over.

“Whatever makes you happy,” he mutters.

The drive through London’s unfamiliar streets is nerve-wracking. The Ferrari responds to the slightest touch, powerful and temperamental as a wild animal. Marcus slumps in the passenger seat, his head against the window, the streetlights painting streaks across his perfect face.

I grip the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles are white, hyperaware of the fortune in automotive engineering I’m responsible for. But it’s not really the car I’m worried about.

Every time I glance over at Marcus, my chest tightens. He looks so young and vulnerable like this, all his careful defenses stripped away by whatever he took. I want to protect him, to wrap him up and keep him safe from everything that drives him to self-medicate.

But I can’t protect someone who won’t let me in. I can’t help someone who insists they don’t need help.

Am I actually helping Marcus? Or am I simply enabling his fall?

My stomach hollows. And I can’t keep my traitorous mind from drifting back nine years ago and asking a simple question.

What would my life look like if Marcus hadn’t hit on me at Saskia’s party?

I’m sure that, by now, I would be in a relationship with someone. I’d have a normal life with lazy Sunday mornings and shared grocery shopping. We’d have inside jokes about how I always forget to buy milk or how he can never remember which bin goes out on which day. Maybe we’d even have a dog or be thinking about starting a family. Our biggest drama would be deciding whose parents to visit for Christmas.

It would be steady, reliable, and maybe a little boring—but it would be real, tangible, everyday love. Not this whirlwind roller coaster of passion and absence that leaves me breathless and aching.

Is it possible that Marcus can simultaneously be the best and the worst thing to ever happen to me?