Page 163 of Reckless Hearts

But Dr. Emerson helped me see it as a chance to understand and maybe even forgive my father through the lens of this character. And she was right.

I found I could use my grief over the losses in my past to deepen my performance, to create a performance that was as much catharsis as it was acting, letting my own healing process inform every moment on screen.

Jake’s words to me have echoed inside me.When your heart is broken, make art with the pieces.

There’s definitely some beauty and power in the statement. But my personal motto has become:When your heart shatters, use the pieces to build something stronger.

I feel like I’ve managed to do that.

Through therapy, I’ve come to a point of acceptance for the loss of my mother and Emmy.

But my chest still feels hollow every time I think about Seb.

I promised I wouldn’t contact him.

And I will keep that promise, no matter how much I want to talk to him, to tell him how I’ve changed, how, at times, I now believe I could actually be the partner he deserves.

Because I’ve taken enough from Seb for a lifetime.

The limo glides through the LA streets, a cocoon of quiet before the storm. I adjust my bow tie, fingers brushing over the fairy tern tattoo. It’s healed to a deep obsidian, each line distinct and perfect.

The tinted windows of the limo offer a last moment of privacy. I close my eyes, centering myself. The car stops, and I hear the muffled chaos outside.

This is it.

I step out into a world of light and noise—camera flashes exploding like stars, my name being called from every direction. It’s overwhelming, but I feel oddly calm, grounded in a way I’ve never been before on this carpet.

“Marcus! Marcus! Over here!” A reporter waves frantically, her microphone outstretched.

I take a deep breath and approach her.

“Marcus, you’re favored to win tonight. How are you feeling?” she asks, her smile dazzling.

I pause, considering. The old Marcus would have deflected with a charming quip, but that’s not who I am anymore.

“Honestly? I’m nervous,” I admit, my voice steady despite the flutter in my stomach. “This role…meant a lot to me. It was a chance to explore some deep, personal stuff. And win or lose, I’m really grateful for the opportunity to have told this story.”

The reporter blinks. “Can you tell us more about what made this role so personal?”

I glance down at my wrist. The fairy tern inked there gives me the courage to answer honestly. “It’s about fathers and sons,about the words we leave unsaid. I’ve…had my own struggles with that. This film was a way to explore those feelings, to maybe start some conversations that need to happen.”

“Wow,” the reporter breathes, her professional mask slipping for a moment. “That’s beautiful, Marcus. Thank you for sharing that with us. Good luck for tonight.”

“Thank you.”

The red carpet becomes a blur of faces and flashing lights.

“Marcus, over here!” is the soundtrack, and I obligingly pause for photos and to speak with reporters.

It’s a dance I’ve done many times before, but tonight feels different. Tonight, they’re getting the authentic me, like it or not.

The Dolby Theater gleams like a temple to cinema, crystal chandeliers catching the light from a thousand sources. Hollywood royalty fills every row—legends I used to watch when I was a nobody in New Zealand now air-kissing my cheeks. The combined net worth in this room could probably fund a small country.

From my seat, I can see nine Academy Award winners, three living legends, and at least twelve future Hall of Famers.

The ceremony seems to stretch on forever. Every acceptance speech is punctuated by the soft clicking of countless cameras.

I try to focus on the speeches, the performances, anything to distract from the growing tension in my chest.