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“We didn’t know the studio was going to hold me to it until today. Dad’s still trying to find a loophole, but if I leave rehab early this time, it’s over.” His face is grim when the camera flips back around. “They’ll kill me off the show and cut me from the movie deal.”
I scrub a hand down my face.Goddammit.That movie contract is our one chance at finally getting on the other side of all this.
Then I can have my life back.
“I’m also calling to let you know I’m too sick to travel right now.” My brother stares for what feels like an eternity, all but begging me to stay here for him. “But I promise I’m done with this shit, Marcus. The last time was the last time. I mean it.”
It’s a lie. It’s always a lie.
“Dad’s going to fix this, or I’ll heal up enough to take your place. Don’t worry,” he finishes.
I twist off the bed, lowering my feet to the floor as a blanket of dread smothers me. We both know what he’s really saying. Either he weasels out of this, or I stay the rest of the six weeks.
He thinks I’ve disowned him, and I guess, maybe in spite, I allow him to think I have. Mortie’s addiction, and general apathy for seeking help, is a burden my parents and I have carried since we lost Leah, but the truth is I love my brother.
My gaze shifts to the photo of the three of us still sitting in the hidden compartment of the nightstand. I may not like the situation, but he’s all I have left, and I would crawl to the ends of the earth to keep from burying him beside our sister.
“What do you need from me?” I ask, equally grim.
“I want you to stay put until you hear from one of us again.” Then after a beat, he utters a frail, “Thank you, Marcus.”
When he disconnects our call, I glare at the screen until it fades to black. Every ounce of joy I’ve collected in my time here dissipates, leaving me hollow.
I open the nightstand drawer and carefully remove the bracelet I haven’t worn since Mortie left the hospital. I grab the folded-up picture of the three of us, arms slung around each other with three separate smiles boasting several missing teeth.
Almost all my life, I’ve been third-best. The triplet who would rather sculpt than practice the piano or take acting lessons. The one who sat in the very back of every recital and rehearsal with a pencil in my hand and my nose in a sketchbook.
I may have cheered them on from a distance, but I never turned down an opportunity to help my brother with his lines or practice dancing with my sister. And when they both settled into their careers, I was proud of their accomplishments even though I hate the crowds, cameras, and flashy Hollywood lifestyle. It didn’t matter because I knew it madethemhappy.
Somewhere along the way, my role morphed into consoling Mom whenever she missed Leah and Mortie, because she’d cry, and I hated her tears more than anything in the world. I helped Dad around the house, teaching myself how to fix drywall and busted pipes because he was, and still is, shit with any kind of tool.
The guilt of saying no to any of them became unbearable. All it took was a single twinge of disappointment, and I’d crumble.
Mortie and Leah had the kind of talent that put stars in our parents’ eyes, and I became the one they depended on to come through. The voice of reason. The one who would take care of things that needed taking care of.
The thin gold chain slides through my fingers as the diamonds sparkle in the light. Heather has no idea of the truth, and the minute I tell her, the fragile amount of trust she’s given me will wither and die.
She’ll never forgive me for deceiving her.
“Is this what you wanted?” I ask my sister as if she could possibly hear me. “To give me signs, show me what it could be like to be happy, only to have it blow up in my face?”
I’ve felt isolation and I’ve felt despair, but this level of lost when it comes to what to do about her, is unsettling. I could be the asshole she once thought I was and push her away. I’ve been pretending to be the famous Marcus Matthews for so long, it wouldn’t be that hard to pretend I don’t truly care for her.
I utter a pathetic laugh because of course I care about Heather. And the thought of hurting her nearly brings me to my knees because I’m miserably, desperately in fucking love with her.
CHAPTEREIGHTEEN
Marcus
We lowered Leah into the earth on the coldest day in Los Angeles’ history.
Mom held on to me and Mortie with everything she had—one arm around each of our backs, and we held her just as tight. Uncaring that we were grown men or that bending to accommodate her small stature put a crick in our necks and shoulders.
It was as if she knew if she let go, even for a second, we might disappear, just as her only daughter had.
Mortie sobbed with her, while Dad was quiet and still as stone. But me? I was suffocating in a way that didn’t stop at robbing my lungs of air but left my body boneless.
Leah lay there in a pretty pink casket, arms crossed with her hair and makeup done, while a sea of paparazzi and media surrounded the fenced-off portion of the cemetery.
