Page 161 of Reckless Hearts

“Why did you break up with him?” she asked.

“Because there’s no future for us,” I whispered, staring at the bedspread. “You told me that before, didn’t you? He’s broken. He’s not capable of loving me.”

“I was wrong,” she says. “I was so wrong. He does love you, Seb. Holy shit, he loves you. You should have heard him talking about you yesterday… I’ve never heard him speak about anyone that way.”

I raised my gaze to hers.

“I don’t think I understood how much he loved you,” Saskia said. “I honestly… I honestly didn’t think he was capable of that kind of love. But it appears he is with you.”

Hope bloomed for a second before it withered and died.

Even if Marcus did love me, he was not willing to admit that love. He was never going to believe he deserved to be loved and to love in return.

“Sometimes even love isn’t enough.” My voice broke as I said the words.

Saskia wrapped her arms around me then, and I buried my face in her shoulder, letting myself cry for the first time since London.

Now, watching Marcus on screen, I remind myself that sometimes even love isn’t enough.

The movie finishes. There’s a collective exhale from the audience, followed by the rustle of coats and purses, the soft murmur of awed conversations. The house lights come up slowly, revealing tear-streaked faces and red-rimmed eyes throughout the theater. People shuffle out in reverent silence as if they’ve just witnessed something holy rather than a movie.

“What did you think?” Brad asks breathlessly.

My throat feels like it’s lined with broken glass. I’ve spent two hours watching the love of my life pour his soul onto the screen, and now I’m supposed to discuss it like I’m reviewing the weather.

“It was good,” I manage.

“Good? It’s a masterpiece. Marcus Johnson was incredible. Holy shit, I can see why people are talking about it winning lots of Oscars.”

“Yeah, I guess.” I’m frustrating Brad with my lack of enthusiasm, but I’m working hard to hold myself together right now. My chest feels like a pressure cooker.

I want to reach out to Marcus to let him know how amazing he was. I have such a craving to talk to him that my fingers itch to grab my phone and type out a message. Consequences be damned.

Which is dangerous. Because I know exactly how it will play out—one message about his performance will become two, then it will become ten, and then it will end with me falling asleep clutching my phone, waiting for his reply.

“Thanks for a nice evening,” I say to Brad, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. Because, apparently, this is what movingon looks like—having an average date with a nice, normal guy while the love of your life breaks your heart all over again in stunning high definition.

38

Marcus

The tattoo artist’s needle hovers over my wrist. The sharp point catches the light like a star about to fall. The mechanical buzz fills the quiet studio.

“You sure about this?” the tattoo artist asks, his voice gruff.

“Yep. Completely sure.”

I always said I would never mark my body with a tattoo.

It appears you should never say never.

I’d talked to Dr. Emerson about this, about wanting something to signify the anniversary of being sober for a year, to have some outward sign to remind myself of the progress I’ve made.

It’s been the hardest battle of my life. I’ve had to relearn how to feel, how to exist in my own skin without numbing myself. For the first time in my adult life, I’ve had to learn how to be authentic rather than hiding behind the version of Marcus Johnson everyone expects to see.

There were nights when the cravings clawed at me, when the guilt threatened to swallow me whole. Nights when I’d pace my house like a caged animal, every cell in my body screaming forchemical relief, my fingers trembling as I clutched my sobriety chip like a lifeline.

Nights when my body would remember the artificial peace it once knew, leaving me curled in my sheets, counting breaths instead of pills, forcing myself to feel everything I’d spent years trying to forget.