Chapter 39 Marcus's Regret (Marcus Eric POV)
The coffee's cold but I drink it anyway, staring out the kitchen window at the patrol car across the street. The officer is still in there, third shift this week. Jessica's words from last night won't stop playing in my head.
He's still your brother.
I set down the mug, rubbing my face. The house is quiet, Jessica took the kids to her sister's for the weekend. Said they needed normalcy, needed to get away from the cops and the tension. She's right. They do.
But before she left, she cornered me in the bedroom. "You need to call him."
"I don't need to do anything."
"Marcus." She stood in front of me, arms crossed. "You told him to stay away. Your brother came all the way here to check on you, and you kicked him out."
"He brought this shit to our doorstep."
"He didn't ask for his family to be murdered."
"But it's still his mess."
"It's your mess too. You're his family." Her voice softened. "And whether you like it or not, you said things you didn't mean. Things that hurt him."
"He'll get over it."
"Will he? Because he looked pretty devastated when he left."
I didn't answer. Just grabbed my phone and pretended to check emails until she sighed and went back to packing.
Now she's gone. The kids are gone. And I'm sitting here with the Officer watching my house, drinking cold coffee, thinking about Don's face when I called him a screw-up.
You've always been the screw-up. You drag everyone down with you.
God. I sound like our father.
My phone sits on the counter, Donald's contact at the top of my recent calls. I pick it up, thumb hovering over his name.
Just call. Apologize. Move on.
But my thumb won't press it. Pride, resentment, years of built-up anger, it's all tangled together, stopping me.
I set the phone down and stand, pacing the kitchen. The clock reads 10:47 AM. Saturday morning. Don's probably at the precinct, working himself to death like always.
Like I accused him of.
My phone buzzes. Text from Jessica: Made it to Linda's. Kids are good. Have you called him yet?
I type: No.
Three dots appear immediately. Marcus.
I will. Just need time.
Time for what? To be stubborn? Just apologize.
It's not that simple.
It is exactly that simple. Call your brother.
I don't respond. Just lock my phone and shove it in my pocket.
By noon, I've cleaned the kitchen, done two loads of laundry, and reorganized the garage. Anything to avoid picking up the phone.
the Officer knocks on the door around one. I open it, and he's holding a coffee cup.
"Everything okay, Mr. Eric?"
"Yeah. Fine."
"Good. Just checking in. Shift change is at three. Officer Rodriguez will take over."
"Got it. Thanks."
He nods and heads back to his car. I close the door, leaning against it.
This is my life now. Cops outside, kids at their aunt's, wife telling me to apologize. All because of Don.
Except it's not because of Don. It's because of whoever's targeting him. And maybe I made it worse by pushing him away.
I pull out my phone again. Scroll to his contact. My finger hovers over the call button.
Do it. Just do it.
I press it. It rings once, twice...
I hang up.
"Coward," I mutter, tossing the phone onto the couch.
It buzzes immediately. Text from Don: You just call?
Shit.
I stare at the message, my chest tight. Type: Butt dial. Sorry.
Ok. Everything alright?
Yeah. Fine.
Three dots appear, then disappear. Then nothing.
I sit on the couch, phone in hand, hating myself.
Ethan's voice comes back to me. Last week, before all this started, he asked about Don over dinner.
"When's Uncle Donnie coming to visit?"
"He's busy, bud."
"He's always busy." Ethan pushed his peas around his plate. "Doesn't he like us?"
"Of course he likes you."
"Then why doesn't he come?"
I didn't have an answer. Just told him to finish his vegetables and changed the subject.
But the truth is, I don't know when Don last visited. Christmas two years ago? Maybe three? And whose fault is that? His for being busy, or mine for never inviting him?
I think about Dad's funeral. Don and I stood on opposite sides of the grave, barely acknowledged each other. Shook hands once, said we'd keep in touch. Never did.
Why? Because of some childhood resentment that doesn't even matter anymore? Because he got the rough childhood and I got the easy one, and we've been punishing each other for it ever since?
My phone buzzes. Text from Jessica: Kids are asking about Uncle Don. What should I tell them?
I type: Tell them he's busy.
Marcus. Call him.
I said I will.
WHEN?
I lock my phone and throw it on the cushion beside me.
By four PM, I've called Don's number six times. Hung up every time before it could ring through.
On the seventh attempt, I let it ring. Once, twice, three times.
"Hey, you've reached Don. Leave a message."
I hang up.
Try again at five. Voicemail.
Again at six. Voicemail.
He's either working or ignoring me. Can't tell which.
My phone buzzes. Text from Don: Everything ok? You keep calling.
I stare at the message, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Type: Yeah. Just wanted to talk.
About?
Nothing important. Call when you can.
Busy tonight. Tomorrow?
Yeah. Tomorrow's fine.
I set the phone down and lean back, staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow. I'll call tomorrow and actually say the words: I'm sorry.
Not that hard. Just three words. People say them all the time.
So why does it feel impossible?
Jessica calls at seven. "Did you do it?"
"Not yet."
"Marcus..."
"I tried. He's busy. We're talking tomorrow."
"You better actually talk tomorrow."
"I will."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
She sighs. "The kids miss you. Want to say goodnight?"
"Yeah. Put them on."
Ethan's voice comes through first, high and excited. "Dad! Guess what? Aunt Linda has a trampoline!"
"That's great, bud. You being good?"
"Yep! Well, mostly. Emma pushed me off the trampoline but I didn't cry."
"That's my boy." I smile despite everything. "Let me talk to your sister."
Emma comes on, more reserved. "Hi, Daddy."
"Hi, sweetheart. You having fun?"
"Yeah. But I miss you."
My chest tightens. "I miss you too, baby. I'll see you Monday, okay?"
"Okay. Love you."
"Love you too."
Jessica comes back on. "They're good. You good?"
"Yeah. Thanks for taking them."
"That's what I'm here for." Her voice softens. "Marcus, I mean it. Call Don. Don't let this sit."
"I won't."
"Good. I love you."
"Love you too."
The call ends, and I sit there in the silence. Officer Rodriguez is outside now, different car, same patrol pattern.
My phone sits beside me. I pick it up, opening messages. Scroll to Don's name.
Just text him. It's easier than calling.
I type: Hey. Sorry for what I said when you were here. I was scared and angry and took it out on you. That wasn't fair. Let's talk soon.
Stare at it. My thumb hovers over send.
What if he doesn't respond? What if he tells me to fuck off, that I had my chance?
What if he does respond? What do I even say after years of distance and resentment?
I hit send before I can overthink it.
The message shows as delivered. Then read.
Three dots appear almost immediately.
It's okay. I understand. Stay safe.
I read it three times. Short, simple, but there's no anger in it. No resentment.
Just understanding.
I type: I will. You too.
Talk soon?
Yeah. After the weekend. I'll call properly.
Sounds good.
I set the phone down, something loosening in my chest. It's not a full apology. Not the conversation we need to have. But it's a start.
And maybe that's enough for now.
Sunday passes slowly. I clean the house again, watch a game I don't care about, text Jessica updates about nothing important. Officer Rodriguez patrols like clockwork.
Monday morning, Jessica brings the kids home. They burst through the door, talking over each other about the trampoline and Aunt Linda's dog and the movie they watched.
"Dad, can we get a trampoline?" Ethan asks.
"We'll see."
"That means no," Emma says sagely.
"It means we'll see." I ruffle her hair.
Jessica sets down their bags, kissing my cheek. "You call him?"
"We texted. I'm calling him later this week."
"Good." She squeezes my hand. "I'm proud of you."
"For sending a text?"
"For trying."
The kids scatter to their rooms, unpacking and arguing about who gets the bathroom first. Jessica starts on dinner. Officer Rodriguez sits outside.
Normal. Almost.
I check my phone. No new messages from Don. That's fine. We said we'd talk after the weekend.
I've got time.