James
“Fuck!” I yell, returning to the kitchen and kicking the bar-stool under the counter. My breathing comes in ragged gasps as I struggle to get a grip, my hands clenched behind my head, tugging at my hair in frustration. What went wrong? We had an incredible night together—I’ve never had sex like that before. And then she just … ran.
I replay the morning over and over in my head, questioning everything.
Was the coffee and croissant too much?
Did I creep her out?
Was I too … relaxed about everything?
I don’t know what to make of it.
She came to me, not the other way around.
She almost kissed me at the bar—not the other way around.
I pull my phone from my pocket and open my text thread with Oliver. I need to talk to someone, and God knows Will and Tom are fucking useless when it comes to women. I punch out a quick message.
Me:Hey mate, are you free this morning? I think I fucked up.
I watch the three little dots appear, and when Oliver’s reply comes through moments later, I let out a breath of relief.
Oliver:Yeah, mate, you okay? I was heading to Hyde Park for a coffee and a stroll in 20, if you want to meet around there?
Me:Sounds good. Meet at the Peter Pan statue?
Oliver:See you soon.
I drop my phone on the counter and change out of my daggy clothes. I quickly shove my legs into a pair of shorts, throwing on a grey T-shirt and slipping back into my trainers in record time. I rush past the kitchen, my gaze landing on the breakfast we barely touched. I close my eyes as hurt floods through me.
I can’t help but dissect every word April said this morning, hoping that by analysing them closely enough, I’ll uncover the truth.
This was a mistake.
She couldn’t have meant that, right? Last night was many things, but a mistake certainly wasn’t one of them. She told me there was something real between us. So, what happened this morning that made her change her mind?
What if I pushed her too hard in bed?
Perhaps I came on too strong and made her pull away?
The idea that this could be my fault coils uncomfortably inside me.
I mull over all the possible reasons, but no matter how many scenarios I consider, I keep circling back to the same answer.
My brother.
It has to be.
Shoving my phone and wallet into my back pocket, I snatch up my keys and head out the door, quickening my steps.
It’s half eight on a weekend and the streets are already alive, even at this early hour. Couples and friends huddle together, coffee cups in hand. People walk their dogs, leads tugging as the dogs sniff out every scent the city has to offer. Everyone goesabout their morning as if it’s all so normal—soeasy—yet I feel anything but.
My legs move on autopilot, and I make it to Hyde Park in record time. I try to calm myself by watching the birds peck at the grass, and a squirrel scurries across the path in front of me, disappearing into a bed of dense shrubbery.
I’ve always loved London in the summer—there’s a quiet beauty to it—the buildings, the gardens, the people. I spot Oliver weaving through a crowd of joggers, two coffee cups in hand. Like me, he’s tall, towering over most people, making him easy to pick out in the busy park. He grins as he hands me a cup.
“Cheers, mate,” I say, raising the cup in thanks.
