Page 32 of Your Pace or Mine
Selena grinned. “Perfect, plenty of time for me to explain the fine art of the Instagram reel.”
Darius let out a pained groan. “I’ve changed my mind. Let’s go back to discussing my non-existent love life, please.”
Settling into his seat on the train for the trip back to London, grateful to have escaped Sunday dinner with his dignity still more or less intact, Darius opened his text thread with Jamie. They hadn’t messaged each other directly much since Jamie had added him to the group chat, but Darius still hated how they had left things the day before. He typed out a message but couldn’t quite bring himself to hit send.
He wanted to reach out, but it felt too personal, like by doing that Jamie would be able to see all the parts of him that weren’t impervious to hurt.
Maybe Selena was right. Perhaps he had the tiniest of crushes. But God, who wouldn’t? Jamie was desire in human form—everything Darius had ever craved wrapped in snark and ready to grand jeté straight through Darius’s self-control.
The countryside passed by quickly as the train sped towards London. It had started to rain, and the window was streaked with droplets of water criss-crossing each other in a web-like fashion as they raced across the glass. Darius rested his head against the window and closed his eyes.
At the next station, a woman sat in the seat next to him. He shifted closer to the window in an unspoken exchange of train etiquette and got his phone back out. Navigating over to Instagram, he noticed a raft of new follow requests. Selena continually voiced her disapproval, but keeping his profile private made him feel like he had an element of control. Likely an illusion, but still.
The requests were from the runners in his group. They’d all added him, even Mark.
Even Jamie.
His curiosity got the better of him, and he tapped open Jamie’s profile. Acknowledging his attraction to the man had made him even more curious to learn about his life—or at least the one he presented to the world. He was greeted by a veritable plethora of photos, far more than could be found on his own sparse page. There were a handful of running photos near the top of the grid and appeals for his fundraiser with a link to a donation site in his bio. Darius opened it, casually checking the total and noting Jamie wasn’t nearly as close to his target as he’d suggested. He left the tab open on his phone for future reference and navigated back to Instagram, even more curious now. Stage photos dominated the majority of the grid, interspersed with memes and what could only be described asthirst traps.
Darius’s eyes caught on one in particular. Jamie was at what looked like London Fields Lido, skin slightly pink from the sun as he lounged on a bright green towel near the pool. His sunglasses pushed back his curls to show off his sparkling blue eyes as he laughed at something off to the left.
Darius stared at the photo, categorising the details like the way the light caught just so on Jamie’s eyebrow ring and the tattoos covering his body. He’d noted the edge of a tattoo inked on Jamie’s thigh when his shorts had ridden up during training, and could now see it was a large outline of the theatrical comedy and tragedy masks. The photo also gave him a view of a beautifully intricate floral piece snaking around Jamie’s chest from the back and dipping below the waistband of his swimming costume. A spark of lust shot through Darius as he wondered just where it finished.
Darius hadn’t realised just how long he’d been staring when the train lurched, coming to a stop at Paddington station. Darius fumbled his phone, nearly dropping it. He caught it just in the nick of time. It was lucky, the train floor was a mottled grey that he knew hid all kinds of sins. His relief lasted only a moment, though. When he looked down, he realised he’d double-tapped on the photo, leaving alike,halfway down Jamie’s grid on a picture of him half-naked.
Chapter 9
Jamie
10 weeks to the London Marathon
Jamie was shit at resting. He always had been. It didn’t seem to matter what anyone said; he always felt like any time off would set him back far further than he could afford.
Nice to know that mentality had transferred over from dance to running,he thought sarcastically.
He knew the injury was nothing serious, but he couldn’t shake the fear that he was losing his edge, that he’d fail at this marathon just like he was failing in his career. It had been radio silence from Jonathan, and he was starting to think he’d never set foot on stage again. He was picking up more casual shifts at his dance studio, covering for other teachers when they couldn’t make it, but it barely passed as a casual job. It certainly wasn’t acareer.
He still loved dance. He loved the art and mechanics of it, but the longer he spent out of work, the less certain he felt about wanting to get back up on stage. Or at least about his willingness to submit to the audition process again. Even if the injuryhadn’t held him back, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to muster the enthusiasm for a dance call right now.
“Take a few more days off. You’ll bounce back, love.”
He was on the phone with his mum, having needed some kind of connection to his home to get through the week. He hadn’t been home in months, his schedule had been too intense, and he was really feeling it now.
Jamie was close with his parents. He was an only child and had grown up surrounded by family, with his parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles all living within walking distance of each other. Except Uncle Marty, who’d up and moved to the Costa del Sol when Jamie had been about four. Even Marty still came back to Liverpool every Christmas, though. The contrast to his life in London, where he had no family and barely saw the few friends he did have, was jarring.
The home Jamie had grown up in was open, accepting, even a tad too sex-positive if he was being honest— he didn’t really need to knoweverything. Though it had surely made coming out easier. He’d just kind of announced it at dinner one evening, and his parents had congratulated him onknowing himself so youngand bought him a Pride T-shirt. He knew it wasn’t like that for everyone, obviously, but he hated to think of himself as fortunate for having parents who did what really should just be the standard. They were his biggest cheerleaders. So many of his industry friends had to fight their parents tooth and nail to go into the arts, but not Jamie. Moving to London had been a big deal, but his parents had helped him every step of the way. He remembered sitting at the kitchen table with his dad, filling in his student loan application and feeling this sense of possibility, of everything thatcould bestretching out in front of him.
“Jamie, I’m serious. Take some time off. Do you need me to send you some money?”
He’d taken too long to respond. “No, Ma, I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”
“You know, when you say that, it just makes me worry more.”
“I know, I’m sorry.”
Jamie hated that his parents worried about him like this, hated that they didn’t see him as a capable adult. He hadn’t grown up wealthy, but they’d been comfortable enough. Sometimes, Jamie worried he’d never be able to reach the standard of living he’d grown up with. He certainly wouldn’t in London. Still, he’d never take money from them. His parents were nearing retirement age, and he wanted them to go into that phase of life without the burden of supporting their son’s increasingly out-of-reach dreams.
“You’ll tell me if you need anything?”
