Chapter 15
Marcus
S tepping out of my truck, I felt the weight of the city slap me in the face. The air was thick with exhaust and noise—horns blaring, engines revving, voices shouting over it all. It was nothing like Small Falls. There, the river hummed softly; here, everything screamed. My boots hit the pavement hard as I shut the door behind me, the sound swallowed up by the chaos around me.
I looked up at the old brick building, its windows streaked with grime, fire escapes clinging to its sides like rusting skeletons. This was it—the address Emily had given me. This was where she lived now. I hadn’t seen her since the divorce. I knew she’d moved back to the city, but that was about it. Still, when she’d called me last night, desperate, I couldn’t just turn my back on her.
Emily had a history of making bad decisions. I just wanted to make sue she was safe, then get the hell back to my new life with Lucy in Small Falls.
"Alright," I muttered under my breath. “Just get it done.” I pulled the strap of my duffel bag higher on my shoulder and started for the entrance. The concrete steps were cracked, uneven. My boots scuffed against them, echoing faintly in the narrow stairwell when I pushed through the heavy door. Each step was narrow and steep, the kind you had to pay attention to or risk a nasty fall. Third floor. Apartment 3B.
Halfway up, her voice came back to me. Slurred. Shaky. "Marcus, I... I don't know who else to call." She hadn't sounded like herself—not the sharp-edged woman I used to know. She’d rambled, saying she felt lost, scared, like she couldn’t see her way out of whatever hole she’d fallen into. Then she’d stopped talking altogether, leaving a silence that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. That pause—God, it said more than her words ever could.
"Emily," I’d said, gripping my phone so tight it hurt. "Where are you? Are you safe?"
"Just . . . don’t hate me for calling," she'd whispered before hanging up.
I didn’t hate her of course. Not then, not now. It wasn’t about that.
Lucy’s face flashed in my mind as I hit the second-floor landing. Her green eyes, bright and full of questions. I’d left her a note on the kitchen counter before I drove off at dawn.
I hoped she’d trust me. Hoped she wouldn’t read too much into it. Lucy deserved better than half-truths, but I couldn’t give her that right now. I didn’t have it in me.
Reaching the third floor, I stopped outside the door to catch my breath. My hand hovered over the peeling paint of the door frame.
I knocked hard, three times. The sound echoed down the hall. For a moment, all I could hear was my own breathing, steady but tense. No answer. My jaw tightened. I rapped again, harder this time. Finally, the lock clicked.
The door creaked open just enough to reveal Emily. She clung to the edge of the frame like it might hold her upright. Her hair was knotted, sticking up in places where she’d probably run her hands through it too many times. Pale skin, blotchy cheeks, red eyes—she looked like someone who hadn’t slept in days. Or weeks. And the smell hit me before I could say anything: booze, sweat, and stale air thick enough to choke on.
"Marcus," she said, barely a whisper. “You came.” Her voice cracked, hoarse like she’d been crying or screaming, maybe both.
"Hey, Emily." I kept my tone low, steady. "May I come in?"
She hesitated. Her eyes darted past me down the hallway, then back to the floor. Finally, she stepped aside without a word. I walked in, boots scuffing against peeling linoleum.
The living room was a graveyard of empty bottles, crumpled clothes, and God knows what else. A pizza box sat open on the coffee table, crusts hardened into something that looked like petrified wood. The curtains were drawn tight, shutting out the world. The air inside felt heavy, like the place was holding its breath.
"Emily . . ." I didn’t finish the sentence. What could I say?
"Sit, if you want," she mumbled, motioning toward the couch.
The thing looked like it might swallow me whole, sagging in the middle with cushions stained dark in spots I didn’t want to think about. But I sat anyway, letting her take the armchair. She perched on the edge, knees pulled tight together, arms wrapped around herself like armor. For a second, neither of us spoke.
"How long’s it been like this?" I finally asked, nodding toward the mess.
"Does it matter?" She flinched at her own words, shaking her head. "Sorry. That was . . . I didn’t mean . . ."
"Emily, I’m not here to judge. I just—" I stopped. There wasn’t a neat way to package what I wanted to say. " Why did you call me?" was sitting on the tip of my tongue, but I swallowed it back. Instead, I leaned forward, forearms resting on my thighs. "I’ll listen. Whatever it is, just tell me."
That cracked something open in her. She exhaled like she’d been holding it in for years and started talking. Fast. No pauses. Words spilling over each other in a rush.
"Lost my job last month," she said, voice trembling. "It wasn’t a big deal, right? Just . . . some bar gig. But it paid rent, and now—" She waved vaguely at the piles of unopened mail on the table. "And it’s not like anyone’s answering my calls. Everyone’s busy. Or they’ve moved on. Or they’re just . . . done with me."
Her hands twisted in her lap as she kept going. "I tried. I swear. I sent out resumes, even went to interviews, but every time they ask why I left my last job—" She broke off, laughing bitterly. "Like I can just say it. 'Oh yeah, I got fired because I showed up drunk.' That goes over real well."
"Emily, that message you sent? About being a Little?”
She looked at me blankly. “What?”
“You sent a message. Saying you were wrong, that you were a Little.”
“I’m not a little,” she sobbed, “I’m just a drunk. I don’t—” she sniffed back tears, “—I don’t even remember sending that message.”
"I’m sorry,” I said, feeling her pain.
"Why do you care, Marcus?" She met my gaze, her eyes glassy and sharp all at once. "After everything, why do you care?"
"Because you needed someone," I said simply. "And I couldn’t ignore that."
Her face crumpled, and she buried it in her hands. "I’m so tired," she murmured between sobs. "Tired of pretending, tired of trying, tired of feeling like this." She gestured wildly at the mess around her. "This isn’t living. This is . . . this is drowning."
"Emily . . ." I reached out, hesitating for half a second before resting a hand on her shoulder. She flinched but didn’t pull away. "You’re not alone in this."
She didn’t respond, just kept crying quietly into her hands. And me? I stayed there, hand on her shoulder, anchored in the weight of the moment.
She let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. "I don’t deserve your kindness." Her voice was barely above a whisper, frayed and broken.
"That’s bullshit," I shot back, firmer this time. "Everyone needs help sometimes. There’s no shame in that."
Her lip trembled. I reached for the half-empty glass of water on the cluttered coffee table, nudging it toward her. "Drink," I said. "You need it."
She hesitated, fingers twitching against each other, before finally taking it. She sipped, small, reluctant gulps.
"Good," I said, nodding. "And food. When’s the last time you ate something?"
"Don’t remember," she murmured, setting the glass down as if it were too heavy to hold.
"Let me fix you something," I offered, already standing.
"Don’t bother." She shook her head, sinking further into the couch. "I can’t—"
"Emily," I cut in, crouching in front of her so she couldn’t avoid my gaze. "Trust me. Just rest for a bit. I’ll take care of things out here."
For a minute, I thought she’d argue. But then her shoulders slumped, and she nodded faintly. Without another word, she shuffled off toward the bedroom, her bare feet dragging against the hardwood floor.
The door creaked shut behind her, leaving me alone with the mess.
I blew out a breath, scanning the room. Empty bottles littered every surface. Clothes—some clean, some definitely not—were tossed in random piles. The air was thick, stale, clinging to my skin.
"Jesus," I muttered under my breath, rolling up my sleeves.
I started with the bottles, scooping them into a trash bag I found under the sink. The clink of glass echoed loud in the quiet apartment. Next came the clothes, which I dumped into a hamper shoved in the corner of the bathroom. The more I uncovered, the worse it got.
On the table by the window, a stack of mail caught my eye. Overdue notices. Red-stamped warnings. My jaw tightened as I flipped through them. Electric. Water. Internet. All past due.
"Dammit, Emily," I muttered, tossing them back onto the pile.
Nearby, an orange prescription bottle rolled halfway under the couch. I picked it up. The label was faded, but the dosage instructions were clear. Antidepressants. It was nearly full.
"Not good," I mumbled, twisting the cap off to check. Sure enough, all the pills were there, untouched.
I set it aside, carefully, before moving to the windows. They groaned on their tracks as I forced them open, letting in a rush of cool, clean air.
The scent of booze and sweat started to fade, replaced by something fresher. Still, the place felt heavy, like the walls themselves had absorbed her pain and weren’t ready to let go of it yet.
I kept moving, scanning for anything else. Another bottle—this one whiskey—was shoved under the TV stand. That went into the trash. A sharp-looking kitchen knife sat precariously close to the edge of the counter. I grabbed it, sliding it into a drawer out of sight.
"How long’s she been living like this?" I wondered aloud, though no one was around to answer.
By the time I finished, the room looked . . . better. Not great. But livable.
Standing in the center of it, I rubbed the back of my neck, staring at the closed bedroom door. A part of me wanted to knock, check on her again. But another part—the part that knew her stubborn streak—told me to leave her be for now.
That’s when it hit me. I couldn’t fix this. Not really. I could help, but this wasn’t my life, wasn’t my issue to solve. I needed to make a phone call.
I stepped out onto the fire escape, the rusty metal groaning under my weight. The city air hit me—cool but stale, tinged with exhaust and faint traces of burnt grease from a diner down the block. My fingers tightened around my phone as I scrolled for their number. It had been years. Too many.
"Shit," I muttered to myself, staring at Thompson on the screen. For a second, I considered backing out. But then I glanced over my shoulder through the cracked window. The mess inside. Her face earlier, pale and drawn like she hadn’t slept in days.
The phone rang twice before a familiar voice answered. “Hello?” It was him, Emily’s father. Older, but still kind-sounding.
"Mr. Thompson," I started, my voice rougher than I intended. "It’s Marcus."
"Marcus?" A pause. Then quieter, more cautious, "What’s going on?"
"Look, I wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t important," I said, gripping the cold railing. My knuckles turned white. "It’s about Emily."
"Emily?" His voice sharpened, all that jovial warmth replaced with worry. "Is she okay?"
"She’s . . . struggling," I admitted. No point sugarcoating it. "I’m at her place right now. She called me last night, sounded bad. When I got here..." I trailed off, the image of empty bottles and scattered pills flashing in my mind. "She needs help. Real help. More than I can give her.”
"Jesus," he muttered, and I heard Mrs. Thompson’s voice in the background, asking what was wrong. He must’ve covered the phone because his voice muffled, but I could hear the panic rising between them.
"Can you come?" I pressed. "As soon as possible. She shouldn’t be alone. And, honestly, I don’t think she’ll listen to me long-term."
"Of course," he said, his voice steady but strained. "We’ll leave first thing in the morning. Thank you, Marcus. For being there."
"Yeah," I muttered, ending the call before the guilt creeping up my throat could choke me.
Stepping back into the apartment felt like sinking into quicksand. The stale air wrapped around me again as I shut the window behind me.
"Emily?" I called softly.
She was on the couch now, knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped tight around herself. Her eyes locked on something invisible across the room, far away. Too far.
"Hey," I tried again, moving closer. Her head turned slowly, her gaze dull until it landed on me. "Your parents are coming," I said, keeping my tone gentle. "They’ll be here tomorrow."
For a second, nothing. Then her whole body tensed, fists clenching against her legs. "You called them?"
"Yeah," I said, careful not to let my voice waver.
"Why would you do that?" Her voice cracked, rising with each word. "Marcus, I trusted you! I didn’t ask for them—I asked for you ! Why couldn’t you just stay here and help me? You know how they are!”
"Emily," I said, holding up a hand, palms out. "This isn’t about trust. This is about what you need right now. They can give you more support than I can. It’s not—"
"Don’t," she snapped, sitting up straighter. Her eyes burned now, sharp against her pale face. "Don’t pretend this is some noble act. You’re just trying to get rid of me, aren’t you?”
"That’s not fair, and you know it," I shot back, taking a step closer.
"Then stay," she said, her voice dropping. Pleading. "Just tonight. Please, Marcus. I can't be alone."
My jaw tightened. There was no good answer to this. None that didn’t feel like stepping into a minefield.
"Emily . . ." I hesitated, my hands curling into fists at my sides. Her fragility was written all over her—a trembling lip, the way her shoulders hunched like she was bracing for another blow. But I couldn’t ignore the undertone beneath her words, the weight pressing harder with every second I stood there.
"Please," she whispered again, her voice barely audible now.
I’d hoped to head back to Small Falls tonight. I missed Lucy desperately. But it truly felt like Emily was in crisis right now.
"Alright," I said finally, swallowing hard. My voice was hard enough to cut through the tension hanging between us. "I can stay tonight, but we need to be clear about something."
Her eyes flicked up to mine, wide and glassy, like a deer caught in headlights. She looked so small sitting there on the couch, knees pulled to her chest, fingers trembling against the fabric of her sweatpants.
I stayed standing. It felt safer that way. A line between us.
"Lucy," I started, pausing just long enough for the name to land. "I'm in a relationship with someone named Lucy. I care about her. A lot."
Her lips parted, something sharp flashing in her expression before it dulled again. She swallowed thickly. "Do you love her?" Her voice was soft, like she wasn’t sure she wanted the answer.
"Yes," I said without hesitation. Honest. Firm. No room for interpretation. I hadn’t been ready for the question, but the answer was instant.
Fuck.
I loved her.
I wished that she knew it before Emily of all people.
Emily’s bottom lip quivered as she nodded slowly, staring down at her hands. For a second, I thought she might break again, but instead, she exhaled shakily, wiping at the corner of her eye. "Okay," she whispered. "I get it."
"Alright," I said finally. "Just as friends. There are boundaries, Emily. You need to respect them."
She nodded again, more firmly this time. "I will," she said, her voice steadier now.
"Good," I muttered, glancing toward the kitchen. "Let me make us something to eat."
***
The rest of the evening passed without much incident.
I cooked. We ate. There wasn’t much talking. From my perspective, I was just here to make sure she was safe.
Later, she went to bed.
I sank into the lumpy couch, the springs groaning under my weight. The dim light from the streetlamp outside filtered through the gap in the curtains, casting long shadows across the cluttered living room. My phone felt heavy in my hand as I stared at Lucy’s contact photo—a candid shot of her laughing at something I’d said, her green eyes crinkled with joy.
I wanted to hear her voice. To tell her everything. But it was late, and I didn’t want to wake her. She deserved better than a rushed explanation over a crackling line. Instead, I typed out a quick text:
Hope you're well. Miss you. Will explain everything tomorrow.
The message sat on the screen for a moment before I hit send. A tiny part of me hoped she’d respond right away, but nothing came. I set the phone down on the coffee table, staring at it like it might light up any second. It didn’t.
Leaning back, I closed my eyes and tried to ignore the faint smell of stale alcohol clinging to the air. My boots were still on, but I couldn’t be bothered to take them off. Sleep wouldn’t come easy, not here, not with everything weighing on my mind. Emily’s hollow eyes flashed behind my lids. Her voice—small, broken—echoed in my ears. How had things gotten so bad for her? And why the hell did I feel like I owed her anything?
The minutes dragged. I shifted, trying to find a position that didn’t make the springs dig into my back. One arm slung over my face, blocking out the faint glow of the streetlight. My phone stayed silent, and eventually, exhaustion started pulling at the edges of my thoughts.
When I finally drifted off, it wasn’t peaceful.
***
I woke to the sharp buzz of my phone rattling against the coffee table. Over and over. Relentless. Each vibration digging into me like a needle. Groggy, I rubbed my face and reached for it.
"Lucy" flashed across the screen in bold letters. Missed calls. Texts. My stomach twisted before I even opened them.
Marcus?
What’s going on?
You love her?! After everything we talked about?
Is this some kind of sick joke?
Tell me it’s not true.
I don’t understand . . . why would you do this?
"What the hell?" My voice was hoarse, barely more than a growl. Panic shot through me, jerking me upright. The texts blurred as my thumb scrolled through them, every word hitting harder than the last.
Then I saw it.
The message I didn’t send.
Hope you’re well. Miss you. Will explain everything tomorrow.
Gone. Replaced with something vile. Something I’d never say.
It's over. I love Emily. I'm sorry.
"Jesus Christ," I muttered, the words tasting sour. My pulse pounded in my ears.
I shoved the blankets off and stormed down the hall, feet heavy against the creaking floorboards. Emily’s door loomed at the end, slightly ajar. I didn’t knock.
"Emily!" I barked, shoving it open. The dim light from the streetlamp outside painted her in shadows. She sat cross-legged on the bed, her head snapping up like a deer caught in headlights.
"Marcus?" Her voice was all sugar, fake sweetness dripping.
I held up my phone, shaking with anger. "What the hell did you do?"
"Do?" she echoed, blinking wide-eyed. Too innocent. Too rehearsed.
"Don't play dumb." My voice cut through the room, sharper than I intended. "You sent Lucy a message. From my phone."
Her lips parted, but no words came out. She looked at me, then the phone, and back again. A crack formed in that fake composure, her bottom lip trembling.
"Marcus, I don’t—"
"Cut the crap, Emily." My chest heaved, the betrayal hitting me full force now. "You lied to her. You tried to ruin everything I have with her."
Her face crumpled, tears spilling instantly. Raw, messy sobs wracked her frame, but they didn’t move me. Not this time.
"I couldn’t let you go," she choked out finally, her hands clutching the blanket like it might save her. "I thought—" She hiccupped, her voice cracking. "I thought if she believed you were back with me, maybe—"
"Maybe what?" I snapped, stepping closer. "That I'd just...what? Forget how much you’ve hurt me? Forget that I moved on? That I’m happy without you?"
"Please," she whimpered, reaching for me, her fingers brushing my arm. I jerked away, the contact setting my skin on fire.
"Stop," I said, cold now. I forced myself to breathe, to keep my voice steady. "This is unacceptable, Emily. I came here because you needed help. Because I thought maybe—" I stopped myself, swallowing hard. "But this? This crosses a line."
"Marcus, wait—"
"Your parents will be here soon," I interrupted, grabbing my jacket from the back of the chair near the door. My movements were quick, mechanical. "I truly hope you get the help you need. But I can't be part of this anymore."
"Don’t leave me!" she cried, scrambling off the bed. Bare feet on the floor, raw desperation in her voice.
"Goodbye, Emily."
Only one thing mattered now: fixing the mess Emily had made.
***
I gripped the steering wheel so tight my knuckles ached. The truck tore down the highway, the engine growling like it felt my fury. My phone sat on the dash, screen lit up with Lucy’s name in my call history. Voicemail again. Every time it rang out, my chest tightened another notch, nerves coiled so tight they felt ready to snap.
"Come on, Lucy," I muttered, slamming my palm against the wheel. "Pick up. Please."
Her last text—"I don’t understand . . . why would you do this?"—flashed over and over in my mind, a broken record that shredded me from the inside out. She thought I’d said those things. Thought I’d chosen Emily. Goddamn it.
I called her again. Straight to voicemail. My voice cracked as I left yet another message. “Lucy, listen to me. That message wasn’t me. Emily sent it. I swear to you—" My throat closed up. I swallowed hard. “I’m coming back. We’ll talk. Please, just hang tight.”
All my messages remained unread. Maybe she’d blocked me. Maybe she was just ignoring me. Either way, it felt like time was running out.
The streets of Small Falls blurred past in muted greens and greys as I barreled toward her house. Closer now. Almost there. My gut told me something was wrong—had been wrong since the second I saw that message—but I refused to believe it. Not until I saw for myself.
When I turned onto her street, the sight of the moving truck hit me like a punch to the ribs. It was parked at an angle in her driveway, its back open, boxes stacked inside. Vanessa stood by the tailgate, clipboard in hand, chatting with one of the movers.
I slammed on the brakes, skidding to a stop. Gravel crunched underfoot as I jumped out, leaving the door hanging wide open. "Vanessa!” My voice came out sharper than I meant, but I didn’t care. “What the hell is going on?”
She looked up, startled, then folded her arms across her chest. “Marcus. Didn’t expect you to show up.” Her tone was neutral, but her eyes were wary. Protective.
"Where’s Lucy?” I demanded, striding closer. My boots scraped against the pavement. “Why is there a damn truck here?”
Vanessa sighed, tilting her head. “She decided to sell the house. Buyers wanted a quick closing, so,” She gestured to the truck like that explained everything.
"She what?” My voice dropped, rough and low. The words barely made it past the knot in my throat.
"Left this morning,” she added, softer now. Like she was trying to cushion the blow. “Didn’t say much except she needed a fresh start.”
"Did she tell you where she was going?” I asked, though I already knew the answer. My pulse pounded loud in my ears.
Vanessa shook her head slowly, sympathy written all over her face. “No forwarding address. Just said she had to go.”
It felt like the ground gave way beneath me. A hollow ache bloomed in my chest, spreading fast. "Damn it." I raked a hand through my hair, pacing a tight line. “She didn’t even wait for me to explain. To fix this.”
Suddenly, it hit me.
I knew what I had to do.