Page 156 of Reckless Hearts

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.