Page 103 of Reckless Hearts

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.