35. Marcus

35

Marcus

I’m a fucking mess on the plane back to LA.

The private jet’s luxury feels like a mockery. The plush leather seat cradles me, but I might as well be sitting on broken glass. My reflection in the polished wood paneling is a stranger—hollowed cheeks, red-rimmed eyes, hair a mess from obsessively running my hands through it. I look like I’ve aged a decade in a day.

I fumble with my phone, muscle memory opening my text thread with Seb before reality slams into me. No more good morning texts. No more random animal facts to make me smile. No more late-night video calls where I could pretend he was beside me.

The flight attendant approaches, all professional concern.

“Can I get you anything, Mr. Johnson?” she asks.

I want to scream.

But I’m afraid if I start screaming, I’ll never be able to stop.

Instead, I manage a brittle smile. “Can I have a glass of whiskey, please?”

“As you wish, Mr. Johnson.”

She bustles back with a bottle of top-shelf whiskey that probably costs more than most people’s rent.

“Just…leave the bottle,” I say.

She hesitates, then nods.

I pour a generous measure, amber liquid sloshing over the rim. It burns going down, but it’s nothing compared to the acid eating away at my insides. Seb’s voice echoes in my head: I need you to let me go.

I was destroying him. Like I destroyed my mother. Like I destroyed my sister.

The only thing I could do was promise not to destroy him too.

I skull another glass of whiskey, and the world blurs at the edges. I fumble in my pocket, fingers closing around the familiar bottle of pills. Xanax. My chemical armor against the world. Against myself.

I shake out a handful, not bothering to count. What does it matter anymore? I wash them down with another burning swallow of whiskey, grimacing at the bitter taste. But it’s nothing compared to the bitterness inside me.

The cabin starts to swim, reality bending and warping like a funhouse mirror. Seb’s face appears, hovering in the air before me, disappointment etched in every line. I reach out, trying to touch him, explain, to beg forgiveness, but my hand passes through empty air.

I’m falling, tumbling through a void of memories. Seb’s laugh. The warmth of his skin. The way he looked at me like I was worth something. Darkness rushes up to meet me. As consciousness slips away, my last coherent thought is a wish: let me forget, just for a little while.

I wake up to shining brightness that sears through my skull like a white-hot poker. My eyelids feel welded shut, and prying them open is an exercise in agony.

I squint, trying to make sense of my surroundings. The room is all sleek minimalism and chrome—signature Jake. He looms over me, his normally impeccable appearance slightly rumpled as if he’s been up all night. His hand is on the curtain cord. It appears he’s wielding daylight like a weapon.

“What the absolute fuck, Marcus?”

I blink in the bright light.

“I think your bedside manner needs some work,” I say.

Jake’s face contorts with a mixture of rage and concern. “Do you have any idea what kind of shit storm you almost caused? The flight attendant found you passed out cold!”

I struggle to sit up, my head pounding. “Relax, I was just sleeping on the flight.”

“Bullshit!” Jake’s voice rises, his composure cracking. “You were barely breathing. If this got out?—”

“But it obviously didn’t,” I say wearily. “So what’s the problem?”

Jake runs a hand through his disheveled hair. “The problem is you’re playing Russian roulette with your career. With your life! One slip-up, one paparazzi photo, and it’s game over.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “Game over? Please. You’d spin it into some sob story comeback narrative before I even hit rehab.”

“This isn’t a joke, Marcus,” Jake hisses, leaning in close. “You’re not just risking your reputation. You’re risking everything we’ve built.”

I slump back down in the bed.

“You think you’re going to get those Oscar-worthy roles you want if you’ve got a reputation as a washed-up junkie who can’t be trusted to show up on set without falling apart?” he continues.

“Seb broke up with me.” I say the words flatly, the pain behind them threatening to choke me. It’s like saying it aloud makes it real, final.

“That’s probably for the best,” Jake says.

I have to swallow the lump in my throat before I can answer.

“For him,” I say. “It’s the best for him.”

“Christ, Marcus,” Jake mutters, running a hand over his face. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small orange bottle. “I’ve got some new stuff from Dr. Reeves. It’s supposed to help with anxiety without the…side effects. Might make things easier to handle. Take two, go have a shower. I’ll make you some breakfast.”

When Jake leaves the room, I stare at the bottle of pills.

How fucking ironic that Jake’s solution for me having a potential overdose is more pills.

But I don’t think I can handle the unfiltered version of my brain right now.

I swallow the pills and go jump into the shower.

When I walk into Jake’s kitchen, my hair damp, my face cleanly shaven, Jake has made me scrambled eggs.

He shoves the plate in front of me. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.”

I cautiously eat a forkful. My stomach recoils slightly, but I manage to keep it down.

“I got a call from Annie Harlow,” Jake says.

I raise my eyebrows. Annie Harlow is an up-and-coming indie film producer known for tackling controversial subjects with a raw, uncompromising style. She’s not afraid to push boundaries or ruffle feathers.

“She wants you to audition for her upcoming film, The Invisible Thread . It’s got Oscar bait written all over it.”

I run my hand through my damp hair. “I’ll take a look at it,” I say.

Jake fixes me with a calculating stare. “There’s a famous saying about heartbreak you should remember.”

“What’s that?”

“If your heart is broken, make art with the pieces.”

Over the next few days, I physically ache for Seb. I find myself staring at his contact in my phone, my thumb hovering over the call button, before I remember I can’t.

I desperately want to talk to him. I want to check he’s okay. The agony on his face during our last conversation haunts me.

But I promised him I wouldn’t contact him.

Seb is not active on social media, but I can’t help checking his profiles anyway, looking for any sign he’s okay.

Even scrolling through my own social media, seeing all the likes and comments on my posts, doesn’t provide any comfort.

All these people, they don’t know me. They don’t know who I actually am.

What the hell is a like worth if it’s for a fake version of me?

After three days, I break. I need to know Seb’s okay. But I refuse to break my promise to him.

So I call Saskia.

“Hey.” Saskia answers my video call. She looks nothing like her Instagram-perfect self—she’s wrapped in an oversized sweater, her makeup-free face making her look younger and more vulnerable than I’ve seen her in years.

The handful of conversations Saskia and I have had since she found out about Seb and me have mainly consisted of her ranting to me about Tom and what a dickhead he is. I’ve kept my part of the conversation light and fluffy and full of the Hollywood gossip I know she loves. I deliberately haven’t mentioned Seb or our relationship, and she hasn’t mentioned him either.

But today, I’m going to break that embargo.

“Hey,” I say.

Saskia straightens, her forehead furrowing.

“Are you okay?”

Seeing her immediately react to my expression makes me realize how much I’ve missed out on with Saskia all these years. We could have had a deeper friendship if I’d allowed myself to be vulnerable rather than the carefully curated version of myself I’ve always presented to the world.

But I’ve been determined to hide who I really am from everyone around me.

The only person I failed that with is Seb.

“No, I’m not okay,” I reply honestly to Saskia.

“Did something happen with Seb?”

“Yes.”

Saskia’s shoulders tense, her lips pressing into a thin line. “This is why you shouldn’t have fucked my little brother, Marcus. Because if you’ve broken up with him, if you’ve broken his heart, then I’m contractually obliged as a big sister to hate you.”

“He broke up with me,” I say.

I try to say the words as neutrally as possible, but even I can hear the raw pain in my voice.

Saskia’s eyebrows fly up, and she blinks rapidly.

“What? Seb broke up with you?”

“Yeah. He did.”

“What the fucking hell?

“I can’t be what he needs. I can’t be the guy he deserves.”

Saskia just gapes at me. She blinks a few times like she’s cycling through responses and finding none of them adequate.

I summon a shaky breath. “But I need you to make sure he’s okay, alright? Just go to his place, make sure he’s doing all right.”

Tears prickle my eyes. I wipe my hand across my face, smearing them.

“And you need to be a good big sister to him. Check in with him, let him talk to you about what’s happening in his life. This breeding season for the fairy terns isn’t going very well, and he takes it really hard whenever they lose a bird. And he’s got a big submission against the proposal to build a golf course, which will be stressing him out because he doesn’t like confrontation and politics, but he’s going to push himself to do it because he believes it’s so important. So maybe you could help him with that? And he needs reminders to eat properly because he tends to get so absorbed in his work that he forgets about basic self-care.”

The shock on Saskia’s face has faded. And now, her eyes fill with unexpected warmth.

“Please, just look after him. Make sure he’s okay,” I say, aware my voice is raw and pleading.

“Don’t worry, Marcus. I’ll look after him,” Saskia says softly.

A week passes.

Two weeks.

Three weeks.

A month.

Two months.

I keep seeing Seb everywhere. In the curl of a stranger’s hair catching the sunlight, in the quiet enthusiasm of a barista explaining the science behind coffee brewing, in every nerdy T-shirt that passes me on the street.

Los Angeles surrounds me with its parade of perfect faces, so many sculpted by the finest surgeons money can buy, yet none of them have that shy smile that lights up my world.

“The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else,” Jake advises me after three months.

But I can’t.

Because every time I even think about trying to hook up with someone, all I can think about is him .

I throw myself into my work instead, treating scripts like lifeboats in an ocean of regret.

If your heart is broken, make art with the pieces.

Jake’s advice echoes in my head.

I’ve got nothing but my career left. So I better make it worthwhile.

The waiting room for the audition of The Invisible Thread is a sea of nervous energy, with actors pacing and muttering lines under their breath. Annie obviously believes in old-style auditions with no video submissions or Zoom calls, just thirty anxious actors crammed into a room that smells of coffee and desperation.

My appearance causes some raised eyebrows from the other actors. I’m not exactly an indie film regular, more used to scripts that come with CGI instructions than profound silences.

I sit still, letting the chaos wash over me. For once, I welcome the nerves. They’re a distraction from the constant ache in my chest.

Annie Harlow greets me with a firm handshake and piercing eyes that seem to see right through me. “Glad you could make it, Marcus. I’ve been looking forward to this.”

As I begin the scene, something shifts. The world narrows to just this moment, this character. I’m no longer Marcus Johnson, heartbroken Hollywood star. I’m James, the artist facing his own mortality. The grief I’ve been carrying becomes fuel, lending authenticity to every line, every gesture.

There’s a pivotal moment where James realizes he’ll never finish his life’s work. I let the weight of that sink in, feeling it in my bones. The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken loss. When I finally look up, I see Annie leaning forward, completely engrossed.

There’s a beat of silence when I finish. Annie’s face is unreadable, but there’s an intensity in her gaze that wasn’t there before.

“Thank you, Marcus,” she says softly. “That was…unexpected.”

I leave the audition room feeling oddly light. For the first time in months, there’s a flicker of something inside me that doesn’t hurt. I may have lost Seb, but maybe, just maybe, I’ve found a way to channel that pain into something meaningful.

I’m in my house two days later, staring at my phone, willing it to light up.

Which is ridiculous, I know. Even if Seb calls, I’ve promised I won’t respond. And I plan to keep my promise. It is the least that I can do.

My phone finally rings, but it’s not Seb’s name that lights up the screen.

It’s Jake’s.

My stomach lurches for a different reason. This will be about my audition.

Surely, surely, something positive will come out of my heartbreak?

“Marcus, I just got off the phone with Annie’s casting director,” Jake’s voice is carefully neutral. “They’ve made their decision.”

“What did they decide?”

“Sorry, Marcus, they don’t think you’re quite the right fit.”

Fuck.

This was my chance to prove to the world that I’m a worthy actor. That I’m capable of raw, honest performances, not just the polished charm I’ve been coasting on.

“Thanks for letting me know,” I say through shaky lips.

As soon as I hang up from Jake, I reach for the whiskey bottle.

That night, I get drunk by myself.

I slump to the floor, back against the wall, the bottle dangling from my fingertips. The room spins, but it’s nothing compared to the whirlpool in my head. Memories of Seb, of my mother and sister, swirl in a nauseating cocktail of regret.

I hadn’t realized how much Seb had been my lifeline whenever I was in a dark place.

How I always knew I could reach out to him to talk, how my safety net was knowing Seb would always be there for me.

But I can’t call Seb now. Because I promised I wouldn’t contact him again.

And my promise to Seb is worth more than my life.

I stand at my window and look down at the swirling lights of Los Angeles, a maze of neon and dreams, each light representing someone else’s story.

The pain of missing my sister. My mother. And now Seb.

The guilt that I failed them all.

It’s never going to go away. The weight of their absences has become part of who I am, like gravity itself—a constant force pulling me down, shaping everything I do, everything I am.

I need something else in my bloodstream right now. I need to blot out reality.

I’ve already had my daily dose of my usual cocktail of pharmaceuticals, the rainbow of pills that help maintain the illusion that Marcus Johnson has his shit together.

But I need more.

I stumble to my bedroom to get the bottle of Xanax.

The last time I mixed alcohol and pills was on the plane, and it didn’t end all that pretty.

I stare at the pills with bleary eyes. The room starts to spin, the edges of my vision blurring like watercolors running together. The bottle in my hand feels both impossibly heavy and frighteningly light. The pills are a siren song of oblivion.

The walls seem to breathe, expanding and contracting with each sluggish beat of my heart. I’m floating, disconnected, a balloon cut loose from its string. Would anyone notice if I just…drifted away?

My reflection in the window fractures, splitting into a thousand versions of myself. Which one is real? The star? The addict? The broken man Seb left behind? They all stare back at me, accusing and pleading in equal measure.

You are worth so much, Marcus. If I mean anything to you, please don’t do this.

The voice in my head sounds like Seb.

“You mean everything to me,” I say aloud, my lips numb.

If something happened to me, it would hurt Seb so much.

That’s the one thought in the chaos of my mind that has me putting down the bottle of pills.

I pick up my phone. But it isn’t Seb I call.

“I need help.”