19. Marcus
MARCUS
The grandfather clock ticks. Steady. Merciless.
No laughter echoes down the hallway. No bare feet pattering across the hardwood. No giggles bouncing off the walls.
No Avery humming in the kitchen.
Nothing.
The apartment is far from empty, nevertheless it feels like a shell. The air is thick, stale, suffocating. The warmth—the life—has been stripped away. And I have no one to blame but myself.
I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, fingers laced together, staring at the floor. Waiting for something—anything—to break the silence. But nothing comes.
This is what I wanted, isn’t it? Distance. Control. No distractions.
So why does it feel like I’ve hollowed myself out?
In one month, I’ve lost everything. My mother. Avery. The boys. Even Victoria refuses to speak to me.
Her last words before walking out echo in my skull: You deserve to be alone.
She’s right.
I push to my feet, pacing the room. My footsteps echo too loudly, filling the space that used to hold their voices. My jaw clenches so tightly my teeth ache. My chest is tight. My throat burns.
I close my eyes, but all I see is Avery.
The way she looked at me that night—tired, done. Not angry, not pleading. Just done.
And I let her leave.
A memory barges into my thoughts:
A Saturday morning. The apartment smells like coffee and cinnamon, the boys are curled up in a blanket fort they’d made in the living room.
Avery sits at the kitchen counter, hair twisted into a loose knot, wearing an old Columbia sweatshirt that’s seen better days.
She’s reading something on her laptop, fingers wrapped around a mug, brow furrowed in concentration.
And I… just watch her.
Noticing things. Like the way the sunlight makes the deep brown of her skin look like it’s glowing from within. The soft line of her throat when she tips her head back to drain her coffee mug. The way she hums absently under her breath, completely at ease.
And then, she looks up and catches me staring.
Instead of teasing, instead of calling me out, she simply smiles.
Soft. Knowing.
Like she saw something in me that even I couldn’t see yet.
A light bulb goes off in my head: That was the moment, wasn’t it?
The moment I should have realized that whatever this was between us—whatever careful, fragile thing we had built—was already more than I was willing to admit.
I should have held on to it. To her.
Instead, I pushed her away.
I scrub a hand down my face, dragging in a slow breath.
The vibration of my phone slices through the quiet. A sharp, unwelcome sound. I almost ignore it. I’ve let every other call go to voicemail. But something gnaws at me.
I glance at the screen. And my stomach plummets.
Avery.
Her name stares back at me, bright and undeniable.
I swallow hard, thumb hovering over the screen. My pulse ratchets up, pounding in my ears louder than any noise the apartment could hold.
What does she want?
To tell me she’s never coming back? To say she hates me? Or worse—to be kind, to say she understands, when I know I don’t deserve it?
I pull in a slow breath and swipe to answer.
“Hello?” My voice is tentative and rough with disuse, unfamiliar even to me.
Silence.
A pause just long enough to set my nerves on edge. I brace myself for Avery’s voice, for whatever she’s about to say.
But the voice that greets me isn’t hers.
It’s smaller. Softer.
“Daddy?”
I stop breathing.
One word. And it’s a wrecking ball.
Desmond has never called me that before. Not once.
I force my throat to work. “Desmond?”
A shaky sniffle crackles through the line. “Darius is sick.”
I’m already standing, heart hammering. My fingers clench around the phone, knuckles white. “Where’s your mom?”
There’s a pause, too long, too heavy. “She’s with him,” Desmond whispers. “But I want you.”
It shatters me.
He reached for me.
And I wasn’t there.
I don’t hesitate. No more overthinking, no more standing in my own way. My keys are in my hand before I’ve even registered moving.
I make it to Avery’s apartment in record time.
The door’s unlocked, I step inside without knocking.
The smell hits me first. Lavender and vanilla, the scent of Avery, mingled with the sharp bite of disinfectant. The lights are dim, the atmosphere thick with exhaustion.
In the kitchen, I can see Avery from behind. She presses her fingers to her temples like she’s holding herself together by sheer will alone.
My chest aches.
On the couch, Darius is curled up, tiny frame buried under a thick fleece blanket, cheeks flushed with fever.
And Desmond—oh, Desmond.
He’s sitting in a chair, clutching a stuffed dinosaur, wide-eyed and lost.
It shatters me.
Because I’ve seen this before.
My mother. Too many nights. Too many mornings. Fighting exhaustion. Carrying it all. Alone.
Because my father was the ‘man of the house.’
Not me. I can’t just stand here and watch her carry this all alone.
I turn and kneel beside Desmond, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m here.”
Desmond blinks up at me, tears welling before he launches into my arms, clinging like he never wants to let go.
And I hold him tight. Because I’m not letting go either.
Avery’s voice cuts through the fragile calm, sharp enough to slice me open.
“What are you doing here, Marcus?”
I get up and meet her eyes. She’s tired. But it’s more than that. It’s me. I did this.
The pushing, the pulling. The constant emotional whiplash.
I’ve worn her down.
Her arms crossed tightly over her chest create a barrier I have no right to break through.
“I was wrong,” I say softly, forcing the words past the knot in my throat.
She blinks, caught off guard. Not what she expected.
And I know—I know—words aren’t enough.
The office is too quiet. But my mind is abuzz.
I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling, fingers drumming absently against my desk. My brain is a storm, restless.
I’ve never been a man who begs. I’ve never had to.
But Avery isn’t something I can buy. She isn’t a deal to close. She isn’t a strategic acquisition to outmaneuver competitors for.
She’s the woman who turned my world upside down. The one I let go.
And if I want her, I have to earn my way back in.
Not with grand gestures or empty words.
But with actions. With proof. Showing up—again and again, until she knows I’m not going anywhere.
I flip open my notebook, pen poised, forcing my thoughts into something tangible. Something real.
A first edition of Beloved.
It’s her favorite, she reads every year without fail. A worn paperback on her nightstand covered in scribbled notes and marked pages.
She deserves better than a bent, dog-eared copy with a cracked spine. She deserves something timeless. Permanent. A first edition—something she can hold in her hands and know that I see her, that I’ve always been paying attention.
I’ve already made the call. I’ve got the rare book dealer searching for a pristine copy now, preferably signed.
Letters.
Not texts, not emails. Handwritten words. Something she can touch, unfold, reread.
I’ll tell her everything I’ve never been able to say out loud. The thoughts that get tangled on my tongue, the feelings that have always been easier to suppress than express.
And I won’t hand them to her directly. No, that would be too easy.
Instead, I’ll leave them where she’ll find them when she’s least expecting it. Slipped inside her favorite book at the library. Tucked into her purse. Hidden in the pocket of her coat.
Reminders, proof. A breadcrumb trail of all the ways I love her.
The little things.
She takes care of everything. Grocery lists, school pick-ups, late-night runs to grab extra supplies for the literacy program.
She never complains. Never asks for help.
So I’ll handle things before she has to think about it. Before she has the chance to sigh and add one more thing to her already overflowing plate.
I have access to her schedule—I’ll make it seamless. The groceries will be stocked before she notices they’re running low. The boys’ bags packed and ready before she even reaches for them. The program’s logistics handled without her needing to lift a finger.
Not because I expect gratitude. Not because I’m making up for lost time.
Because I should have been doing it all along.
Every doctor’s appointment. Every school play. Every sleepless night.
She won’t have to wonder if I’ll show up.
She won’t have to brace herself for disappointment.
I’ll be there. Every single time. Not just when it’s easy, when it’s convenient.
Because that’s what a partner does, what a father does.
No more running. No more pretending I don’t feel everything I do, when she walks into a room.
I toss my pen down, exhaling slowly.
I’ve made my choice: I’m all in.