by E. S. Carter
I wonder what he’s doing now? I wonder if he’s finally sorted his head out because bloody hell did he have some major issues.
Issues that made him lash out at me in the ugliest way possible.
I don’t hold it against him, though. He’s a really cool guy if you take away his denial. Plus, we all have baggage. Who am I to judge anyone? It took me long enough to accept that I am who I am and I love who I love. Not that I’ve ever been in love. Lust? Yes. Love? That word only brings heartache and loss. Just look at Josh. Give me lust over love anytime.
My feet pound the pavement as I weave my way through the suburban streets towards Pontcanna Fields. I asked the estate agent the nearest place to go running, and he recommended this leafy park just a short jog from my new house. When I approach the entrance, I hit my running playlist on my phone, crank up the volume and pick up my pace to the sounds of indie rock blaring through my earphones.
Bob, the estate agent, was right. This is a great place for a run; flat, green and with a stunning view of the River Taff. Friendlier than London too as I pass by many walkers, cyclists and joggers who all give a smile as they go on their way.
I’m approaching mile four when my eyes land on another jogger up ahead running towards me. Tall, wearing low-slung shorts, a tight vest and bright blue running shoes, his long legs eat up the ground with his powerful stride. The closer we get the more of him I can make out. He has messy dark hair, a cool set of Bose headphones on his ears and a body that has seen many hours in the gym. We are just a few strides away from each other when our eyes clash and my stomach bottoms out causing me to stumble and lose my stride. I correct myself just in time to gawp, open mouthed like a fucking fish floundering for air on an arid riverbank. Recognition flashes over his face as he too stumbles but manages to pick up his pace in time to run past me fluidly, his eyes never leaving mine until he’s passed by and is sprinting off in the opposite direction.
Flynn fucking Phillips is in Cardiff.
It’s as if I thought of him and he materialised in front of me. Like just remembering the last night I saw him has somehow conjured him up out of thin air.
Slowing down, I turn and jog backwards to enable myself to watch him run away. I need another visual confirmation that my eyes aren’t playing tricks on me and that the stunningly sexy man who just ran past me is indeed Flynn.
His back is stiff, his strides purposeful and I can’t help but drop my eyes to his perfectly shaped arse that is made all the more mouth-watering by the tight fabric skimming over those perfect glutes.
I flick my eyes back up in time to see him look over his shoulder and stumble again.
Fuck me.
It is him.
The last man I saw naked. The man whose ripped body is imprinted on my brain. The man whose image I’ve wanked off to far too many times to count over the last year.
What the hell is he doing here?
I guess I’m about to find out because the man I am shamelessly staring at while jogging backwards has just turned and is heading straight for me.
Flynn fucking Phillips is running right at me, sweat causing his tight top to cling to his muscles, exertion flushing his cheeks red, making him even hotter than I can remember.
He’s my every wet dream in the flesh. He’s also my every nightmare, and he’s gaining on me with every purposeful stride of his long, muscled legs.
I swear to God I may just hyperventilate.
This cannot be real life, someone with a camera is going to jump out of the bushes and scream ‘You’ve been punked’ any second now.
Three- his eyes are locked on mine.
Two- his full lips tip up into a nervous smile.
One- “Isaac? I thought it was you.”
Zero.
I am so in the zone that the reality of seeing Isaac right in front of me takes a moment to register through my surprise.
I could’ve done my morning run in my new place. The fully equipped gym has a top of the range running machine, and I initially planned to make good use of it, but with the sun breaking out over the horizon and the early morning air crisp against my overheated skin, I knew I’d made the right decision to check out the local area. That is until I come face-to-face with the man I’ve tried to eradicate from my memories.
It was his eyes I noticed first, even from many feet away I felt their intense stare. When I looked directly at the face that held those eyes, recognition wasn’t immediate. He looked like Isaac, and my body felt the same reaction it always does to his presence, but he was different.
Gone was his shoulder length hair to be replaced by a messy style that was short on the sides and longer on top. His strong, defined jaw led to his full mouth and fat bottom lip. A jaw that I remembered was previously hidden beneath a cascade of waves that somewhat softened his chiselled features. Now, he looks even more masculine, even more manly and if my cock has any say in the matter, even more attractive. I’m not sure if it’s shock or his new appearance or a combination of both, but my mind can’t quite grasp that the man who just ran past me is him, Isaac Fox.
Even after passing him I feel his stare and my head turns of its own accord to double check, my heart frantically beating in my chest and not because of the twelve miles I’d already run.
When I look over my shoulder, sure enough, he’s slowly jogging backwards and staring at me, or at this precise moment in time he’s staring at my arse. Why does that shoot a thrill down my spine that settles firmly in my heavy balls?
Keep running. Do not turn back.
Only every single part of me begs to turn back.
My therapist suggested that moving on would be easier for me if I made amends with the people that I felt I had done wrong.
Isaac is one of those people. The things I said to him, about him, were unforgivable. Maybe this is my chance to make that right? Maybe I’m being given the perfect opportunity to do the right thing and begin my fresh start with a clean slate.
Maybe.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I turn on the spot and sprint back in his direction. He’s still jogging backwards but appears to be about to turn around, until he sees me heading his way. Then his mouth drops open, and he gapes, yes, gapes, as if he can’t really believe that I would want to talk to him or more likely that I have the audacity to think he wants to talk to me.
“Isaac? I thought it was you.”
Smooth, Flynn. Real fucking smooth.
Silence.
He’s still staring at me like I have three heads and man boobs.
“I, uh… what are you doing here?”
Still with the smoothness.
His mouth closes and opens a few times, but he remains jogging on the spot while I stand stock still, hands on my hips waiting for a reply like an idiot.
“Sorry, this was stupid of me. I guess I…” I’m about to ramble some shit about leaving when he shocks the crap out of me and interrupts.
“I have a few miles left to go, but do you fancy grabbing a coffee in say an hour? I saw a great looking breakfast place just down the road.”
He looks nervous. His typically cool, calm and relaxed demeanour is nowhere to be seen and it only serves to make him even more attractive. I make him nervous. That’s a good thing, right? It’s better than out and out anger or hate which is no less than I deserve.
“Yeah, sure. Coffee sounds great,” I reply while fidgeting with the leather strap around my wrist.
Coffee sounds great? Wow, I’m killing this conversation.
Just like that, Isaac’s nerves disappear, and his stance becomes more confident. His wide lips stretch into a charming grin, and my cock appreciates the view of his stubbled jaw as it moves.
Yeah, it’s still him that does this to me. Only him.
“Cool. I’ll be done in around an hour. I’ll meet you there for eight. The place is called Brava. I’ll have an Americano.”
Cocky, he’s already placing his coffee order, and again it just makes him more appeal
ing. Is there anything that could make this guy a turn-off for me?
“I guess coffee is on me then. I’ll see you at eight.”
He nods and gives me a shit-eating grin then turns and sprints away.
I watch, of course, until he becomes a speck in the distance and I realise I’m standing in the middle of a busy park, with runners and cyclists whizzing past me, a matching shit-eating smile on my face.
I stretch out my now stiff muscles, my legs protesting at the lack of cool down and jog back to my new place to grab a quick shower.
I don’t want to make it look like I changed just for him, so I pull on some sports bottoms and a hoody, quickly style my hair, making sure to make it look like I haven’t bothered too much and make my way to the café he mentioned.
It’s a five-minute walk away and even this early in the morning it’s bustling with people grabbing their morning java.
I check the time as I walk through the doors and see that I have ten minutes to order and grab us a seat.
Selecting a table that faces the door, I grab our coffees, including his requested Americano and add a couple of bran muffins and pastries.
I’m starving so he’s sure to be, it has nothing to do with wanting to please him. I need food, so he likely does too.
My knee bounces under the table, and I readjust my seat about a dozen times trying to get comfortable.
What am I going to say to him? Sorry is hardly going to cut it, and I do not want to go into detail about my pathetic issues or talk about my brother. Maybe he’s coming here to give me a piece of his mind? Maybe he won’t turn up and I’ll be stood up? Yeah, like this is a date.
This is not a date.
Just as I’m forcing my body to recline casually in my chair, he strides through the door. His skin flushed from his run, and his hair slicked back against his head in messy waves like he’s been running his fingers through the sweaty strands.
Why is that so hot to me?
I’m not just nervous. I’m on pins. My nerves are jangling through my body, and my heart is pounding in my chest. He’s just a guy I need to make amends with, and he can either accept my apology or walk away. That’s all I’m here for, nothing else.
Keep telling yourself that.
“You came.”
“You’re here.”
I guess we both thought we were going to be stood up.
We laugh awkwardly at our similar greetings and Isaac takes a seat opposite me, his long legs stretching out under the table bracketing mine but not touching. His intense eyes take in every inch of my face, and despite his laid-back appearance, I can tell he’s still shocked to be here with me.
“So, how come you’re in Cardiff? You have a book tour going on?”
He picks up his drink and helps himself to a muffin from the tray. His question is easy to answer and an obvious conversation starter. I appreciate the fact he’s going easy on me.
“Nah. I’m taking a break from that side of the business. Elaina, my PA, has helped me employ a management team to take over the fitness plan sign-ups and I’ve fulfilled my publishing contract for three books. I’m here to try something else.”
He finishes chewing his bite of food and washes it down with a gulp of coffee before speaking. “It’s always good to try something new.”
That’s quite a closed response. Where should I take the conversation now? Go straight into an apology? Lucky for me, he gives me another break and asks, “So are you here for a few days or longer?”
“I’m renting a place not far from here. I’ll be in Cardiff for at least six months. I may even decide to stay and continue working from here. How about you? You have a shoot in Wales or…?”
“I’m working for my brother. I haven’t taken on any new projects for a while, and he offered me this opportunity. The timing was perfect, so I’ll be here for a few months too.”
The penny drops.
Jake Fox. Isaac Fox.
Brothers.
I’m working with his brother on this new film, and Isaac is working with him… on his new film.
Fuck. Things could get awkward. So much for new beginnings. I need to get this apology out and try and make both our lives a little less uncomfortable.
Shifting in my seat, I lean forward to pick up my coffee, then think better of it and take back my hand, sliding it under my thigh instead. I can’t be trusted not to wave my arms around while I ramble, so it’s better if I sit on them than look like a complete nob.
“I’m, uh… I need to… uh. What I’m trying to say is…”
“It’s okay.”
I lift my anxious gaze from the table top to look at his face. Those two words are spoken with such compassion and understanding that I struggle to blink for a second and can only stare.
His face is honest and open, his body language calm and inviting and as much as I want to accept how graciously he’s letting me off the hook, I don’t deserve it, and he deserves more.
“No. Listen. It’s not okay. I turned back to talk to you today instead of running away because I need to apologise, in fact, I need to do more than that, but at least it’s a start.” I sit straighter in my seat and make sure to maintain eye contact, even when my entire body screams at me to look away from the one person I can’t ever seem to purge from my mind.
“My reaction, the things I said to you, I don’t have an excuse. Well, I don’t have a good enough excuse. I’ve been through some…um, stuff, but that’s not on you, that’s all me and those hateful things I said, although I directed them at you, they weren’t because of you. I wish I could take them away and pretend I never said them, but I can’t so all I have to offer are new words, words of apology that I hope you don’t find meaningless because I couldn’t mean them more.”
I break our stare and look out into the sunny street. My tongue trips over words, wanting to find ones that mean something and I only come up with one. Sorry.
Turning my head to face him once more and locking my eyes with his intense hazel gaze I speak two simple words from the heart and hope he can feel the truth of them.
“I’m sorry.”
“I forgive you.”
His smile is small but genuine, his eyes full of the forgiveness he spoke.
“It’s not as simple as that.”
“It’s as simple as we want it to be,” he counters quickly. “Life is too short, Flynn. Live it without regrets.”
His hand extends across the table and rests flat on the surface in front of me. “If you get a chance, take it. If it changes your life for the better, let it. If it’s worth the risk, then gamble because happiness can be fucking fleeting and forgiveness can be given and accepted easily without the burden of grudges. I’ve accepted your apology. Can you accept my forgiveness?”
Can you accept my forgiveness?
I stand before the outfit worn by David Tennant, the tenth Doctor Who, but I don’t actually see it. I mean, of course I see it, but my head just keeps repeating my encounter with Isaac on a fucking loop. It’s like being stuck on a bad rerun of an angsty chick-flick. Only I’m not Ryan Reynolds; I’m his snivelling, over-thinking co-star. Damn it all to hell. Why can’t I be Ryan Reynolds?
“I preferred Tom Baker. He liked Jelly Beans just like me.”
A small voice breaks into my internal replay of Isaac’s forgiveness monologue, and I turn my head to the side to see a young lad of about ten or eleven staring at a costume that was worn by Billie Piper when she played the Doctor’s sidekick, Rose.
He doesn’t turn to look at me but keeps rattling off facts and opinions on everything from Doctor Who baddies to the new improved Tardis and why it is blasphemy that Torchwood got canned.
“I take it you’re a fan?” I tease when he finally breaks for air. Turning his head slowly to give me a ‘Duh’ face, I’m struck by how much this boy reminds me of my brother Clark.
With a mop of messy auburn curls that could do with a good trim, pale freckled skin and big blue eyes, this boy could
well be his son, if he’d ever had one. The uncanny resemblance may have once sent me running away unable to face the memories of my brother, but between months of therapy and the fact that I bump into this kid here, at the Doctor Who Experience, of all places, kind of feels like serendipity.
“Would I be here if I wasn’t?” he asks a little confused.
Fair enough.
I smile and shrug in return, but then he asks, “Are you a fan?”
“Would I be here if I wasn’t?” I toss back and then add for good measure, “Besides, everyone knows Tennant is the ultimate Doctor, it’s a fact.”
“Whatever.” Is the typical kid response received.
I chuckle under my breath and turn around to find out who he’s with. The kid must understand what I’m doing because he says, “I’ve got a season pass, I come here all the time. My mum will pick me up outside when I’m done.”
“That’s cool,” I reply because I have nothing else to say and wonder why I’m still talking to this random kid that kinda looks like a young version of my dead brother.
“Okay, nice chatting with you, Bakerite, but I’ve gotta head off now, adult things to do and all that.”
“It’s Clarke.”
I’m about to turn but stop dead. My throat closes up restricting the air getting to my lungs, and my stomach plummets until I feel it hit the floor with a reverberating thud.
Slowly I turn to face the boy. “What did you say?”
He tears his gaze away from a costume that I now know he must have studied hundreds of times before and slowly speaks like I’m an imbecile and he needs to make me understand. “My name, it’s Clarke. C-L-A-R…”
“K.” I finish for him, the letter coming out with a rasp as though the sound tore at the flesh of my throat before exploding into the air.
“E,” he tags on, oblivious to my struggle.
“C-L-A-R-K-E, Clarke with an E. My mum wanted me to have her maiden name so gave it to me as my first name. Kind of geeky, hey.”
