Page 157 of Reckless Hearts
“You mean everything to me,” I say aloud, my lips numb.
If something happened to me, it would hurt Seb so much.
That’s the one thought in the chaos of my mind that has me putting down the bottle of pills.
I pick up my phone. But it isn’t Seb I call.
“I need help.”
36
Marcus
I’ve spent my entire career pretending to be other people. Now, in rehab, I have to face the scariest role of all.
Being myself.
Jake found me the most private and secluded rehab place possible, where apparently all the staff have such strict NDAs that even the most famous people can pass through without a hint of tabloid scandal.
The center looks likeArchitectural Digestis having a clandestine romance with theMedical Journal. Every piece of furniture probably costs more than most people’s cars, but the underlying sterility reminds me I’m not actually on vacation.
Of course, for the first few days, I’m far too preoccupied to appreciate my surroundings. It turns out that when you’ve stuffed yourself full of a mix of prescription medications for over a year, detoxing isn’t much fun. It’s like the worst hangover of your life multiplied by a thousand, with a side of existential dread.
On the third day, I have my first therapy session with my assigned psychiatrist.
Dr. Emerson looks like she stepped out of a Pottery Barn catalog—all earth tones and calming energy. But her eyes are sharp, cutting through my bullshit before I even open my mouth.
She invites me in to sit on the beige couch opposite her.
“Before we start, I want you to know that in this room, you’re not Marcus Johnson, the movie star. You’re just Marcus. Think you can handle that?”
I clear my throat before I answer. “Yes, I can definitely handle that.”
“We’re going to be on a journey to discover exactly why you feel the need to rely on artificial substances to numb yourself from the world and work out strategies to help you navigate your emotions in a healthier way.”
“I know exactly why I put chemicals into my bloodstream to blot out reality,” I say.
“Why is that?”
“Because I killed my mother and sister, and it’s made me incapable of love.”
Whatever Dr. Emerson expected out of my mouth, it obviously wasn’t that.
She blinks twice. The corners of her mouth tighten, creating tiny creases that betray her practiced neutrality.
“All right, let’s unpack that statement. That’s quite a heavy burden you’re carrying.”
I lean back, crossing my arms. “Unpacking it won’t change the facts.”
Dr. Emerson leans forward slightly, her pen poised over her notepad. “Facts can be subjective, Marcus. Why don’t you tell me what happened?”
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. “I pushed my sister, which caused her to fall into a lake when I was nine, and then I didn’t jump in to rescue her until it was too late. She drowned. My mother… She couldn’t handle her death. And when I told herI’d been the one to push Emmy, that tipped my mother over the edge, and she overdosed.”
“That’s a traumatic experience for anyone, let alone a child,” she says softly. “But why do you say you killed them?”
“Because I did.” The words taste bitter. “If I hadn’t pushed Emmy, if I’d jumped in faster, then she’d still be alive. And if I hadn’t told the truth…my mother would still be alive.”
Dr. Emerson shifts in her chair, uncrossing and recrossing her legs like she’s settling in for a long battle. “Did you intend for either of your actions to have those consequences?”
