Page 160 of Reckless Hearts
On paper, Brad is perfect for me. He’s a meteorologist and a keen hiker. His social media feed is devoid of selfies, instead filled with close-up shots of rare insects and impassioned posts about renewable energy.
But in person, we’re not exactly clicking.
Maybe I’m being unfair to the guy, holding him to impossible standards.
Because as we go into the movie theater and the movie begins with a close-up of Marcus’s handsome face as he stares into the grave of his fictional father, my stomach swirls.
Of course no other man will ever live up to Marcus Johnson.
Watching his face on the giant screen, it’s impossible to believe I’ve touched that skin, kissed that mouth.
I mean, the idea is so ludicrous, isn’t it?
It’s unbelievable.
“Did you know Marcus Johnson is gay?” Brad whispers to me.
Yes. I’m well-acquainted with Marcus Johnson’s sexuality, actually. All that hot sex we had kind of gave it away.
For a second, I toy with answering honestly before I default to a polite “Oh really?”
Luckily, Marcus is back on screen and Brad’s attention is drawn away from continuing the conversation.
I try to follow the plot, but instead, I catalog Marcus’s expressions, each familiar quirk of his lips sending a jolt through my system.
A year of being without him, and I just want to watch him. I want to hear his voice. I find myself leaning forward in my seat, drinking in every detail. The curve of his throat when he swallows back tears, the subtle shift in his posture when he’strying to appear strong, the way his hands shake slightly when he’s overwhelmed.
The movie is an emotional tribute to the complexities of father-son relationships, exploring the unspoken words and missed opportunities that haunt us. I can’t imagine what feelings making this movie dredged up for Marcus. Every scene feels like he’s offering pieces of his broken relationship with his father, transforming his pain into art.
In the climactic scene, Marcus stands motionless in his childhood bedroom, tears streaming silently down his face as he gently touches the faded height marks on the doorframe.
He is exquisite. There is no other word for it.
I knew Marcus was talented, but this goes beyond acting—it’s like watching someone set themself on fire to provide light.
Every expression is raw, a masterclass in micro-expressions that convey volumes without a single word spoken.
He looks so tormented, his eyes reflecting a storm of conflicting emotion.
As I stare at Marcus’s giant face on the screen, my conversation with Saskia after Marcus and I broke up flits into my mind.
She’d come over to my house unexpectedly, disturbing my hermit status. She was carrying a bag of groceries and what looked suspiciously like the chocolate chip cookies Mum used to make whenever one of us was upset when we were kids.
I’d been home from London for a week at that point, and I had only left my room to go to work.
Standing in the doorway of my room, she’d taken in the mountain of unwashed laundry, empty takeout containers, and scattered scientific journals that covered every surface, and her face had contained nothing but sympathy.
“Oh, Seb,” she said softly, in the same tone she’d used when I broke my arm falling out of our treehouse when I was eight.
“Marcus talked to you,” I’d stated flatly.
“Yes, he talked to me.” She gingerly picked her way through the discarded clothes and pizza boxes, looking so out of place in her perfectly pressed suit and immaculately styled hair.
Her nose scrunched as she caught a whiff of the mix of unwashed clothes and days-old pizza.
“He asked me to check up on you, see if you were okay.” She started gathering the takeout containers. “You should have told me you’d broken up. I would have been here sooner.”
“I’m fine,” I lied, and Saskia didn’t even bother to pretend she believed me. Instead, she sat next to me on the bed, close enough that our shoulders touched, just like when we used to hide together during thunderstorms when we were kids.
