All the Feels (Spoiler Alert #2)(96)

He was out in the hall before she could respond.

Downstairs, in the lobby, he heaved open the door to a single-stall bathroom and locked himself inside. He sent a text to Zach with unsteady fingers: I need a few days to think. Stall them if you can. I’m sorry. Swallowing hard, he tucked his phone back in his pocket.

The marble floor stung his knees when he crumpled, but it was just another pinwheel of pain in a body already racked with agony. He couldn’t contain it all a moment longer.

There, where no one could see, he cried so hard he threw up.

TUESDAY MORNING FOUND Alex back in his home.

Marcus had arrived at the hotel very late Saturday night, carrying both his duffel and a bag full of weird pastries he called cocroffinuts. He’d slept a few hours on the pullout couch, while Alex had spent the night miserably sniffing the bed’s pillowcases, hunting for a whiff of coconut. And early the next morning, they’d begun their two-day, caffeinated-pastry-fueled trip back down the coast.

Because of Alex’s shaky grasp on—well, everything, Marcus had done all the driving, and he’d done it without complaint. Even when Alex kept choosing playlists full of brokenhearted ’80s power ballads. Including, notably, “Broken Wings” by Mr. Mister, which he played six times in a row before Marcus’s increasingly visible misery finally prompted him to switch to Poison’s “Every Rose Has Its Thorn,” followed by Heart’s “What About Love?”

“You know,” Marcus finally said after the fourth repetition of Cheap Trick’s “The Flame,” his voice strained but patient, “music was still made after the turn of the century. Even sad music with electric guitars.”

Alex stared out the window, where a cliff tumbled down to pounding waves far below. “The synth speaks to my soul.”

Marcus raised a hand in surrender, then went back to driving.

When they’d finally reached Marcus’s L.A. home, he’d emerged from the driver’s seat with a groan, stretching his back. “Want to stay here for a while?”

They both knew Marcus would rather be back in San Francisco with April, and Alex might not prefer solitude, but maybe it was what he needed. It was certainly what he deserved.

“Nah.” He slammed the passenger door behind him and circled to the other side of the car. “But thanks for the offer, dude.”

Marcus’s brow furrowed. “You’ll be okay to drive home?”

“I’ll be fine. Because of you.” Before getting behind the wheel, he’d given his best friend a quick, hard hug. “See you on Friday.”

Marcus and April were visiting Malibu that weekend, and they’d persuaded Alex to come along. Until then, he planned to stay offline and out of sight. Maybe by Friday, he’d have his shit together, although he doubted it.

Last night, back in his own bed once more, he’d barely slept. Even a long hike along the unlit, technically closed trail nearest his house hadn’t helped clear his jumbled thoughts or ease the continual ache in his chest.

And now here he was, hiding in his own fucking backyard to avoid Dina’s concerned scrutiny, picking at her excellent apple–sour cream pancakes and trying not to think about Wren.

Trying and failing.

Finally, he set aside his plate and downed his ADHD medication with coffee. If his stomach hurt later, so be it. Pain south of his heart might prove refreshing.

When he checked his phone, there were three new messages from Zach. StreamUs was pushing for a decision about the show, and so was his agent. I don’t know how much longer they’ll give you, Zach’s last email read. C’mon, man, isn’t this exactly the sort of opportunity you wanted?

It was. Zach was entirely right.

Only …

He sat back in his chair and stared at his property. His view. His home.

When he was very little, sometimes he and his mom had been forced to stay at cheap motels for a month or two, ones with cigarette burns and broken security chains and fleas, because she didn’t have enough money for a security deposit.

Now, if he wanted, he could drive around the country—maybe even explore the world—in style, and he could get paid for it. Handsomely. All he had to do was make stupid jokes and grin rakishly and keep his constant stream of bullshit running freely. And when he was done, he could come back home to a fucking mini-castle, complete with a terrifyingly efficient housekeeper and a guesthouse.

A goddamn guesthouse.

All while Lauren was busting her ass in the ER, dodging punches and insults as she saved lives and broke her own heart, only to return home to an aging duplex with a turret and zero other amenities. All while his mother sat alone in her Florida house and reported to work and shelved books and continued getting older with her only child across the entire fucking continent.

His life was fundamentally selfish. He was fundamentally selfish.

Maybe he should just move back to Florida, near his mother, and find real work. Even though, in his experience, real work tended to absolutely blow.

But no matter what he decided, he was free until Friday, and his mother deserved a visit. It had been months since his last trip to the Gold Coast. And if he was desperate for his mom to hold him, if he wanted her to make him cinnamon toast for breakfast—his absolute favorite comfort food, bar none—and tell him everything would be all right …

Well, maybe that was selfish too. Whatever.