Tell Me Our Story

Jonathan wouldn’t have dreamed of it.

Ten minutes later, Savvy and Mr Cranky took turns swatting one another’s hands from their shared newsprint parcel while the chip shop thrummed with locals.

Jonathan tried to stay in the moment, but his focus shifted outside to the deep turquoise Sounds. Small islands peppered the warm, still water, washed with rich sunset hues. One in particular pulled at him, a familiar magnetism. His thoughts drifted, and he burned the roof of his mouth on hot salty chips.

“That island you’re staring at?” Mr Cranky snapped at him, “I see you rowing over in the mornings. There’s true treasure there.”

Savvy palmed their head.

Jonathan barely raised a brow. “Hm.”

“True, true, I tell you. Folks in my day called it Soulmate Island. Friends went there and bam. Lovers. And usually, nine months later, bam. Kids.”

“Is that how you and your wife got together?”

“Aye. My first and my second.”

“How terribly romantic.”

“Are you making fun of me, young Adonis? I never saw that Jacquie over there with you, and she hasn’t come to the library for weeks now. You see?”

Jonathan swallowed. In all of the two years they’d been together, he’d never taken Jacquie there. He’d considered it, once. But the place was too . . .

“I’ll prove its magic to you, boy.” Mr Cranky crumpled up the paper around their few remaining chips. “Let’s get home. I miss my wife.”

Savvy helped Mr Crank with the door and followed him out. “Just what are you thinking, Jonathan?”

The island made a striking silhouette before the sinking sun.

Love existed.

Long-lasting love existed.

But it definitely didn’t come from spending time on that island.

“One-two-three. One-two-three.”

Four-and-five-year-olds surrounded him in the mirrored dance studio, their little legs shifting, not quite in time. Lessons at this age were mostly about becoming familiar with the music, following a beat. Parents waited in the lobby outside the open doors, peering in to watch.

One kid ran toward their mum, and another tripped over.

Ben, the dark-haired boy with rosy red cheeks, would be picked up last. His mum used the forty-minute dance session to shop for the week. One-two-three. Ben held his hands up and stepped in precise rhythm.

Jonathan nodded at him, and he beamed.

When the others had all gone, Jonathan played the music again—free time, now—and Ben jumped about erratically, laughing, giggling, throwing himself around the room.

“This music is the best!” he said, and then tugged at Jonathan’s fingers, urging him to join his wild dance. It was a vain effort, but every week, Ben tried.

“Sorry I’m late. Again.” His mother rushed in with a tired, happy smile, and Ben raced over to her.

“Say goodbye to Mr Hart.”

Ben waved.

Jonathan waved back as they left. “See you at the library on Saturday.”

He shouldered his bag and slipped out into the evening, locking the doors behind him. Savvy was already home studying for a test, so Jonathan took the free moment for himself.

He passed the town’s gazebo, crossed under the crumbling stone arch of Courtship Crossover, and cut across the performance space at the pavilion. At a giant weeping willow—his favourite tree—he picked up a hint of vanilla perfume on the breeze. Familiar.

He pushed aside the threadbare curtains of willow fronds, and toed into the footholds in the trunk. “Hey, Jacquie.”

A mass of long dark hair curtained the figure sitting on an upper branch, leaning back against the trunk. “Knew you’d come here.”

“Creature of habit?”

“Yes.” She smiled gently at him as he found his own perch. “And . . .”

He stiffened, waiting.

“You come here when you’re down,” she said.

“I’m fine, Jacquie. I mean, maybe happier if—”

“Nope.”

“That was depressingly quick.”

Jacquie fingered her glossy lips, feigning deep thought. “Still nope.”

Jonathan pulled a book from his bag and peered over it. “I hope you’ll tell me what I did wrong.”

“Wrong? Nothing. God, no. You were the perfect gentleman.”

Jonathan fanned the pages of his romance with his thumb and pretended to read. “A thousand of these, and still clueless.”

“You were just . . . too perfect.”

Jonathan blinked. “You will need to explain this horrendous experience.”

Jacquie laughed softly. “You went into it wanting it to last. But we’re in our mid-twenties. Sometimes we just want to burn.”

“Burn.”

“Experience something fiery, passionate.”

“We had passion.”

“We had tenderness and respect.”

“Scandalous!”

She smiled. “Don’t you want more than that? Don’t you want that . . . indescribable spark with someone? Don’t you want to know what it feels like—not just to like someone, but to crave them?”

“I could be more . . . fiery.”

Her foot bumped his playfully. “I sort of can’t wait to witness it.”

“Witness it?” He batted her lightly with the book; she grinned and batted him back with painted claws and boots until they slipped from the tree and into a tangle in the grass.

She straddled him and he flinched when she went for his wrists. She pulled back, eyes locking onto the wristwatch he’d instinctively shifted out of her reach.