Marcus: A Drop In The Ocean

Jordan parked inside the underground garage of a huge building downtown. The second we stepped out of the car, my bladder pressed against me, and I brought my bottom lip between my teeth, clamping down. 

He took it in, his eyes lingering for a second too long before bringing themselves upwards. He nodded toward the elevator. “Come on.”

The ride to the penthouse felt too long. Suffocating. Not because of Jordan, but because of whatever that was over the phone call. I’d noticed that he looked….smaller somehow, since that call.

His hands tightened into fists repeatedly, and he seemed to be very jittery, like someone had snuffed out all the arrogance and confidence he had. The elevator doors chimed open and Jordan stepped out fist.

He barely made it three steps into the apartment before halting abruptly. I almost crashed into him. 

The penthouse was huge. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked Los Angeles, the dull weather stretching endlessly beyond the glass. From that point, I could see our schools, the silver and golden name plate shimmering in the grim downpour. 

But that wasn’t what made Jordan freeze.

Beside the dining table was a woman in a white dress. She was beautiful, with the same brown hair as Jordan. Elegant. 

Cold.

Her lips moved. “Jordan.”

There was a man standing beside her. He looked older, with silver threading through his dark hair. That was Mr. Arthur. I knew him from all the magazines and the news. His expression barely changed when he saw his son. 

There were no smiles. No one hugged or anything. The penthouse felt stifling. And there I was, the stranger in their midst, desperately trying to hold onto my bladder and not make things odder by asking Jordan where the bathroom was. 

Jordan stood straighter beside me. “Dad, Mom.”

His mother's eyes flickered towards me briefly, for all but one second. It wasn't strange. I wasn't worth that much where they were concerned. I guessed they were used to their son rolling with people who had big names in the economy. 

“Who’s he?” she asked. 

Jordan didn’t even hesitate. “Nobody.”

It hit hard. I told myself not to care. Jordan and I barely knew each other. Of course, I was nobody to him in the grand scheme of things. He probably just felt bad about the other night. 

He turned to me. “The bathroom is down the hall.”

I didn't look at him for fear of what I might find there. So, I just walked away from the group, trying to find the bathroom. But I didn't go too far. It was just like the first night. I idled in the hallway, waiting.

Listening. 

For some reason, I felt like Jordan needed me. 

Leaning just by the entrance to the hallway, I watched as his father took a step forward. “You weren’t answering your mother’s calls.”

“I was busy.”

“You should answer her, regardless.”

Jordan nodded, even though his eyes remained hard. “Right.”

Silence followed. A deafening one that would have made anyone else uncomfortable. But the Arthur family seemed to be used to it; everyone in their own heads. Until his mother spoke again. 

“Your sister passed away this morning.”

Everything stopped. 

Jordan stood frozen to the spot. He didn’t move, nor blink. Nothing. Not as much as a muscle twitched. I waited for him to do something, to say something. Instead, his expression stayed terrifyingly empty. 

"She went peacefully," Mrs Arthur continued, smoothing the non-existent wrinkles from her dress. "The doctors did everything they could, but in the end, we had to let her go."

Jordan’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “That’s good.”

Wait, what? Good? I felt sick to my stomach suddenly. 

His father nodded once. “The funeral arrangements are being handled by the family’s personal assistant. All you have to do is show up.”

It looked like they were discussing business, not a child. Not their daughter who'd just died. Jordan looked at the floor, and then I saw it. For some reason, he was holding back. He was reigning everything in. 

Jordan was hurt. 

“When did it happen?” he asked. 

“Eight this morning.”

I saw his fingers tremble at his side before they curled into a fist. He shrugged them into his pockets. I chose that moment to walk out. I knew I shouldn’t have. They were family. This was their dynamic. But I just couldn’t stay back. 

The air sizzled with my presence. His mother glanced up at me. “You can leave now.”

Jordan spoke before I could. “He’s staying.”

Surprise was etched on my features as I looked up at him. His parents seemed shocked, too, as for a while, they were silent. His father adjusted the cuff of his suit. "Very well, then."

Jordan’s mother stepped closer to him. For a stupid second, I actually thought she was going to hug him, that this odd silence was only because they didn’t know how to process their grief. But instead, she reached out rigidly, fixing the collar of his hoodie. 

“Control yourself at the funeral,” she said softly, like she was talking about the weather. “People will be watching.”

Jordan’s expression was still blank. “Of course.”

His parents didn't give me another second of attention as they walked around us, heading out of the house. The door clicked shut behind them, and I released a breath. 

And then, Jordan let out a laugh beside me. It sounded awful. Empty. 

“What the hell…” he whispered, rubbing both his hands over his face. “Of course, they’d say that first.”

His breaths came out unevenly, his fists out of his pockets again. I stayed silent, even though I had to pee. Desperately now. Jordan walked towards the open-plan kitchen, pulling a cabinet open before returning with a bottle of vodka. 

Recipe for disaster. 

“Jordan…”

“She’s dead,” he murmured, a haunted look in his eyes. “And somehow, they still made it feel like it didn’t mean a thing.”

I didn’t know what to say. Should I offer to call Heather? I didn’t want her here with him. Was that selfish of me?

“Come drink with me, Marcus.”