35. Marcus #2
He slid his foot up my thigh and talked shit about my sweater. He made me drink spiced hot chocolate and wiped the foam off my lips. Then, when we were in the parking lot, he said we needed to take a picture.
He held the phone up and snapped so many as we stood by the bike. In one, he put me in a headlock. In another one, we both smiled at the camera. But my favorite is this one.
Where he kissed the corner of my mouth, his cheeks creasing with dimples, his eyes nearly closed.
“You’ve reached emotional terrorist and part-time hockey legend, Preston Armstrong…”
Again.
“How long are you going to listen to that hideous voice?” Preston murmurs from beside me.
I gulp, my throat working up and down, but I force myself to stare at the town’s lights.
“God, I sound so pretentious.” He laughs.
“Don’t call your voice hideous. It’s my favorite voice. And you’re not pretentious.”
“Wow, if cliché were ever to hit you upside the head, this would be it, dude.”
I feel the weight of his hand on my shoulder. “Go home, Marcus. It’s cold.”
“I don’t want to. Mom will be waiting for me. She keeps trying to make me talk about you.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“Yeah, you’ve been gone for two weeks, and…I can’t talk about it. I just can’t. I refuse to process it.”
“But it’s freezing.” He wraps both arms around my waist, leaning his head against my shoulder, but I feel no warmth whatsoever.
“It’s not freezing enough.”
“You plan to join me or something?”
“Maybe I should,” I whisper as his voice from my phone reverberates in the air.
“Don’t do that.” His voice is brittle. “Live for me, yeah?”
“But you didn’t live for me! I begged you! I fucking begged you to live for me, but you chose to let your demons take you instead of talking to me about them. You promised to stay! You promised me!”
I curse myself when I look to my side, and all I see is air.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I can’t even speak to his ghost now. What if he completely disappears on me, then what?
My hand shakes around the phone as I listen to his voice, my nose tingling and my lips numb. I pull up his Instagram and scroll through his pictures.
There are hundreds of them—selfies, pictures from games, photos with Miley, Jude, and Kane.
Some with Hayes, too.
But I scroll to a specific photo—one he posted the night I fucked him for the first time. It’s a black-and-white slightly blurry selfie, showing only half of his face as he stands in the rain, his hair all but covering his eyes.
The caption says—Je veux pas partir.
I translated it, and it means I don’t want to go.
Even when he was running away, he wasn’t really. Deep down, he wanted to stay with me, he just didn’t know how.
“Pres…” I mumble in the silence, stroking my finger against the screen.
“If you wanted to stay, why didn’t you? Did it hurt that much to be with me?
Was the pain so unbearable, you couldn’t talk to me?
Vent to me? Bare yourself to me? If…if I’d held on to you tighter, would you have fought for me? For us?”
My voice chokes as a droplet falls on the screen, distorting his face, making my vision blurry.
“If you planned to leave, why did you change my life so drastically that I can’t recognize it anymore?
How am I supposed to move on now? I can’t seem to do that.
Everything I had passion for is gone. I don’t want hockey or revenge.
I don’t want anything. Is this how you felt in those last moments? Like you didn’t want anything anymore?”
My jaw shakes as another droplet falls on the screen. “Not even me, baby?”
He doesn’t say anything, not even his ghost is able to reply. Only his voice from the voicemail echoes in the air.
“You’ve reached emotional terrorist and part-time hockey legend, Preston Armstrong…”
Again.
“You’ve reached emotional terrorist and part-time hockey legend, Preston Armstrong…”
Again.
“You’ve reached emotional terrorist and part-time hockey legend, Preston Armstrong…”
A car rolls to a halt beside me. I wipe the moisture from my eyes with the back of my hand, but I don’t pay the newcomer any attention as the door opens, and, instead, keep listening to the voicemail message.
It isn’t until a man in a sharp black three-piece suit walks toward me that I straighten, gripping the phone tighter.
He throws a glance at it, listening to Preston’s voice in the darkness.
Lawrence.
I hang up, my fist clenched. Maybe I should kill him, make him join his mother and give Preston some company.
But then again, he looks like an older version of Preston, and I don’t think I’d ever have the heart to hurt someone who basically has his face.
“Hello, Marcus,” he says in a monotone voice, and I can’t help recalling how often Preston called him a robot.
I say nothing and keep glaring at him.
Lawrence lets out a sigh. “Aren’t you going to ask why I’m here?”
“I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“Right.” His gaze flits to the village. “Andrew told me you caused the gunman’s and my mother’s deaths, as well as a few others’.”
“And?”
“And I’d like to know why you made revenge for Preston’s death so personal. I’d expect it from Kane and Jude since they knew him for a long time, but that doesn’t apply to you.”
“I knew him well enough to conclude you failed him as a fucking parent when he needed you the most.”
He pauses, narrows his eyes, but there’s another emotion there I can’t pinpoint.
“Yes, I know everything, Lawrence, and the only fucking reason I’m not making you join him is because he loved you. Despite your lack of parental care, he never stopped loving the father who failed him.”
“He…told you that?”
“Didn’t have to.” I stare at the lights. “The signs were there. He wanted you to be proud of him, was terrified of your disapproval, and tried everything to get your attention. He cared about you more than you deserve.”
“Are you telling me you deserve his care?” He stands taller. “His trust? His deepest, darkest secrets?”
“I do.”
“What were you to my son, Marcus?”
“His man,” I say without hesitation. “We were in a relationship.”
“Hmm.”
I frown. What does that mean? I expected narrowed eyes, anger, or even threats, but Lawrence seems to be contemplating something.
He makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. “It doesn’t matter at this stage, you wouldn’t have lasted with Preston anyway.”
“Says who?”
“Logic.” He speaks in a low voice. “Preston needs someone to bring him from the edge at all times. Someone who’ll recognize when his hallucinations and brain are acting up more than normal and make the hard decisions to either medicate or put a leash on him. Someone like me, Jude, or Kane.”
“Well, none of you managed to save him.”
“Neither did you, Marcus.”
I swallow thickly, but before I can say anything, he asks, “If he were alive, Andrew and I would’ve separated you two anyway, so isn’t it better that this happened?”
“You would’ve never separated us.” I stand toe to toe with him. “If he were alive, I would’ve taken him far away from all of you.”