Spoiler Alert (Spoiler Alert #1)(94)
He shoved his shaking hands in his pockets and contemplated the airy expanse of the first floor, all open floor plan and high ceilings and sunlit windows and impeccable furnishings. White walls and metallic accents and minimalist, low-slung furniture.
He’d never really felt at home anywhere before meeting April. Not even here.
His throat ached. He headed to the kitchen for a glassful of chilled sparkling water from the dispenser in the refrigerator door, his footsteps faintly echoing in the spartan space.
The cheap water bottle he’d bought at a gas station had warmed during the trip from Berkeley to Los Angeles, and he’d left it in the car. He didn’t need any unnecessary reminders of today, however inconsequential.
Every time he let his mind wander, April was crying again.
In another age, he’d have knelt before her then. Prostrated himself. Anything, anything that would serve to appease at least a small corner of his endless, ever-unfurling self-loathing.
He’d wept too, of course—but not until he’d left her home, because damned if he’d cry in front of her. Not like that. It would be inadvertent manipulation, because she cared about him. He knew it, even if he also knew he didn’t deserve it.
If she ever forgave him, if she ever took him back—and she’d do neither—he didn’t want her to do so out of pity. Never seeing her again would hurt less.
Probably. Maybe.
He sipped his water, the carbonation an irritant to his already-raw throat.
Beneath his palm, the polished concrete countertop was smooth and cold. Laying his phone on top of it, he idly scrolled through recent messages on his cell.
Texts from Alex about the optimal thickness of hot-water crusts for savory pies, as well as complaints about Lauren’s dampening disregard for both British baking shows and pegging. An obscenity-laden screed from Carah via DM, something to do with the upcoming awards season. An email from his father, which Marcus deleted without reading. A half dozen more emails from his agent, which he kept but didn’t open. A missed phone call from Summer.
The cast chat had been active the last few hours too. Active and on edge, probably because of the upcoming convention.
Carah: SURPRISE, SURPRISE, MOTHERFUCKERS
Carah: Ron and R.J. officially backed out of Con of the Gates, citing a too-heavy workload Carah: Too-heavy workload, my sweet ass
Alex: I’m assuming they mean the workload for their Star Fighters project, since they were nowhere to be found on OUR set this last season Alex: Except in front of the cameras, naturally, for special features and interviews highlighting their genius and dedication Maria: Well, they certainly weren’t working on our scripts Ian: They were around plenty, whiners
Peter: More tuna hallucinations, poor Ian
Peter: It’s a shame everyone will miss Ron and R.J.’s session, The Art and Science of Failing Upwards As Cishet White Guys Ian: Fuck you, Peter
Ian: You’re a has-been
Ian: and since you’ve never been on a successful show before, you have no idea how things work, especially off on your stupid little island Alex: Is Tuna Rage a thing? Like ‘Roid Rage, only smellier and less articulate?
Maria: “Fuck you, Peter”?
Maria: Oh, Ian, I’m so sorry
Maria: I’m afraid Peter requires a certain level of
Maria: how should I put this
Maria: personal hygiene? yes, personal hygiene
Maria: when it comes to his lovers
Maria: I’m pretty sure anyone who smells like the Catch of the Day is disqualified, sadly Carah: oooooooooooh
Carah: the rare and elusive piscine BURN!
Carah: FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT
Ian: That’s right, Maria
Ian: I suppose you WOULD know all about Peter’s requirements for sex Summer: Stop right there, Ian
Maria: No, go on, I’d like to hear this
Alex: Ian, Peter might not have an IV tuna drip and muscles upon muscles, like some sort of steroid-induced pecs Inception, but he will fuck you up, my dude Alex: and so will I, to be clear
Peter: Thank you for the kind offer, Alex, but there would be nothing left of him by the time I was through Peter: and that’s only if Maria doesn’t get to him first, because she would transform him singlehandedly into a fine pink mist Peter: So please, Ian, finish what you were saying
Carah: IT’S MY FUCKING BIRTHDAY UP IN THIS BITCH
Carah: NO TUNA IS SAFE TONIGHT
Peter: Ian?
Alex: Yo, Ian
Carah: IAN, COME BACK
Maria: He swam away, like his beloved fish
Maria: which are vertebrates, unlike him
Summer: Oh, wow. ::high-fives::
Carah: ICHTHYOLOGY SHADE, I LOVE MY GODDAMN LIFE
If Marcus could have smiled, he would have.
Instead, he drained the rest of his water, set the glass in his deep, wide sink, and prepared to remove his suitcases from the car and literally unpack his relationship with April.
After several trips outside, he set the luggage on his California king bed and unzipped everything, determined to empty every compartment, every pocket, every dark hiding place.
Dirty clothing goes in the hamper. Clean clothing goes in drawers or on hangers. Toiletries go in the bathroom. Tech goes in either my nightstand table or my office.
If he kept repeating the next steps to himself, he couldn’t think beyond the moment. Couldn’t remember.
It was all so easy. Mindless. Mindless was good.