Tell Me Our Story

Jonathan glanced at the soccer-field sized, bush-covered island. A stretch of pebbled shore, an abandoned cabin. With the flutter of birds and the movement of the wind, it looked like a beating heart. Sunrise kissed it burnt orange and red.

He ripped his gaze back to O’Hara; the bottom half of his face and his stylishly distressed pullover and jeans glowed in a wedge of sunrise. Water lapped quietly at their boats.

“Let’s go,” O’Hara said.

Jonathan jerked, letting O’Hara’s boat go and taking up his oar again. “I’m rowing around it. Not stopping.”

“Come on. I miss it.”

“Still not stopping.”

He pulled water, making O’Hara’s boat rock.

Laughter. “Why?”

“Because.”

O’Hara took up his oars again and gave chase. The wind was stronger on the northeast side; Jonathan eyed the island and his body trembled, shivers rolling over him. He flanked O’Hara’s boat, shielding him from the worst of the weather. The last time they’d been here together, they’d shared a boat. Jonathan had rowed; O’Hara had always been hopeless at it.

Cool wind whipped around them, and O’Hara’s dinghy tilted. Jonathan narrowed his eyes and took a closer look . . . was it a little low in the water?

He closed the gap between their boats again and grimaced.

O’Hara’s ankles were already submerged. “That leak looks serious.”

“Yes, thank you for letting me know. I heard a snap as I jumped in. Didn’t think it was so bad, but the further we went . . . I have my foot over the crack, slowing it down.”

Jonathan stared at him, horrified. “Why didn’t you say something? I wouldn’t have let you gallivant around this island with me.”

“That’s exactly why I didn’t tell you.”

A bubbling gush of water surrounded O’Hara’s boot.

“Out of there, now.” Jonathan grabbed hold of his upper arm and tugged him.

O’Hara palmed the back of his hand, as if it might calm his urgency. Their eyes locked, O’Hara tilting his head awkwardly to meet Jonathan’s. How could he still be smiling?

“It’s not going to suck me under like Charybdis.” O’Hara turned and hefted the picnic basket. “Take that first.”

Jonathan stared at him. “Charybdis . . . Whatever, I don’t care about the food. I want you safe in my boat. Right now.”

The smile broadened. “Well, when you say it like that . . .” O’Hara stood, and immediately wobbled. His laugh turned into a small cry as he fell forward.

Jonathan surged for his hips and caught him, O’Hara’s hands clasping his shoulders. A surprised oof feathered over his brow.

“Easy there.”

One wet foot and then the other, O’Hara climbed over into Jonathan’s boat.

Jonathan held him tightly all the way.

“Thank you,” O’Hara murmured.

The sea rolled under them. Jonathan felt adrift, the safe tether of gravity suddenly gone—

He let O’Hara go, trying and failing to steal it back.

His breath caught sharply and he glanced away.

The rotten dinghy had slid out of reach; Jonathan used his oar to draw it in. O’Hara settled himself on the seat across from him, feet knocking against his, while Jonathan roped the boats together. When he turned around, O’Hara had both oars in his hands, idly shifting them over the water’s glistening surface.

Jonathan gestured. “I’ll get us back in half the time.”

“That wouldn’t be half as fun. All the good stuff happens on the journey, look at Odysseus. Or Jason.”

He dropped his arms. “What do you want?”

O’Hara settled the oars inside and opened the picnic basket. He pulled out two blueberry muffins and handed one over.

Jonathan took it quietly.

O’Hara broke off small chunks of muffin and dropped them into his mouth. Nimble fingered, opulent. Like ancient Greeks being fed grapes.

“What?”

Jonathan dropped his stare and bit into his muffin.

When he looked up again, O’Hara was staring at the water, his smile dimmed. Dimming. “Would you like to hear a story?”

Any other time he’d have expected something bawdy, or mischievous maybe, but O’Hara’s tone stilled him.

“Hero was a virgin priestess of Aphrodite, living in a temple on the Greek side of Hellespont. On the other side, across the water, lived a beautiful man of good heart and integrity. Leander was not supposed to fall in love with Hero, but upon their first meeting, his heart gave way. Their sweet conversations stole Hero’s soul and every evening, she lit a lamp to guide Leander to her.”

Sympathy pulled in O’Hara’s softening voice. This story, like all the myths O’Hara retold online, affected him.

“One night the waves were too treacherous to cross, but Leander could not stay away. He was pulled under, and desperate to save him, Hero threw herself into the raging sea. Their bodies found one another, though, and washed ashore the next day. They were wrapped around each other in a tight embrace.”

That tight Adam’s apple bobbed. “Want another one?”

Jonathan shook his head. “Enough tragedy for one day. Unless you have something that ends happily?”

O’Hara’s laugh sounded strained. “I wish.”