Tell Me Our Story

“She comes over occasionally.”

“Which is why you have cat treats above the fridge.” O’Hara looked over at him like he’d discovered something wondrous. Gently, he set Gingernut aside and joined Jonathan in the kitchen, leaning against the island in front of him. “I poked around while you were sewing sheets from scratch.”

Jonathan finished his glass and rinsed it immediately. He glanced at him over his shoulder. That dimple deepened.

“I opened your fridge expecting an unreasonable amount of greenery and it was almost empty. The freezer, though—chock full of frozen dinners.” O’Hara wagged a finger at him, tutting. “You’re not healthy anymore.”

“Are you done with your analysis?”

“For now.”

Jonathan turned and folded his arms.

A wild smile tipped O’Hara’s lips as he lounged gracefully against the counter beside him. “You know why I came, Jonathan.”

“Yes and no. I guessed your intentions the second I saw you. What I haven’t figured out is why you’d want to?”

Noise from the doorway had them jumping apart like they’d been caught trading secrets. Savvy sauntered in smiling, then lurched to a halt. Their mouth dropped open and they jerked a finger in O’Hara’s direction, voice squeaky. “That’s . . . what’s . . . You’re back? For real? Why?”

O’Hara stepped toward Savvy; the air shifted, whispering over Jonathan’s skin. “Well, I came back with a very important question—”

Jonathan’s heart raced and he quickly cut over him. “How was your milkshake date?”

Savvy blinked. “Um, good?”

“Good. I’m . . . glad.”

“Are you really?”

Really? That was more complicated. “It’s certainly a new dynamic for us.” He paused. “It’s probably best we lay out some rules.”

Savvy raised a brow.

Out the corner of his eye, O’Hara did, too.

“Like what?”

“Like no one in your room with the door shut. No underclothes touching. No overclothes touching. No kissing.”

Savvy just looked at him, baffled; a similar expression crossed O’Hara’s face, too.

“What’s left?” O’Hara said.

“Hand holding is acceptable,” he acquiesced. “We can talk about this again when you’re actually sixteen.”

Laughter came at him from both sides, but the one at his ear had his stomach knotting.

O’Hara rested an arm on Jonathan’s shoulder, fingers tapping against his chest in a rhythm not too dissimilar from his pulse. “Be reasonable. If you’re too strict, they’ll just find ways to do things behind your back. Better to give them the freedom to take things as far as they want, with the knowledge they can come to you if they have concerns, questions, need condoms—”

Jonathan sucked in a hissing breath. “No.”

“I’m being realistic.”

“You might have jumped into bed with your crushes at fifteen, but I won’t let Savvy be so reckless.”

O’Hara’s jaw flexed. “You know I didn’t jump into bed with anyone at fifteen. I wasn’t suggesting they should, just that perhaps trust would get you further than a bunch of ridiculous rules.”

O’Hara was too heavy pressed at his side, his fresh-grass-and-adventure scent invading every breath. “Your bed’s made. Off you go and read in it.”

“Are you sending me to my room?”

Jonathan looked at him, and O’Hara slowly pushed off his shoulder and disappeared down the hall.

Savvy had Gingernut curled in their arms. “I’ll do whatever you say, Jonathan,” they said, staring at the fluffy orange fur.

Jonathan closed his eyes and let out a long breath. “No. He’s right. I’m just . . .”

“I get it. You’re being a big brother and a dad.”

“Please . . . just be careful.”

Savvy came up to him, patting Gingernut, and kissed his cheek. “Maybe tell O’Hara he doesn’t actually have to go to time out?”

He hung his head and groaned. Then, with a squeeze to Savvy’s shoulder, he strode toward the study and knocked on the partially-open door, an apology waiting awkwardly in the firm line of his lips—

Movement caught his eye, and he pushed the door wide, catching the tail-end of O’Hara escaping out the window.

A cool gust washed over Jonathan where he stared, dumbfounded.

Was he always so . . . so extreme? Why didn’t he take the front door?

Jonathan touched the cool frame of the open window and squeezed. He ducked back to the hall, donned his shoes, and chased O’Hara’s playful shadow.

Ahead under the streetlights, O’Hara wandered, fingers plucking at foliage, head turned toward the sky. The vastness above, wide and glowing, dwarfed them both.

Shadow and man slipped over the street, crossed the town square, lingered under the arch at Courtship Crossover and strode the curving path to the willow.

Stopping first to assess the configuration of its limbs through gaps in the curtain of leaves, O’Hara tucked himself inside and danced fingertips over the trunk. Two footholds later, he flung himself onto Jonathan’s usual branch and rested his head against the bark.

Jonathan concealed himself behind another gnarled tree and peered through its damp branches, his stomach in knots. O’Hara breathed deeply and murmured into the dark. His phone came out and he held it to his ear.