Tell Me Our Story

“Sweet dreams, Hart.”

Jonathan frowned as he made his way to his room. He slipped into his fresh sheets and reached for the light switch—

Gah!

O’Hara’s life-size poster loomed over him, tacked above the bed. That smirk, those crossed arms. The picture of arrogance. It always made Jonathan’s eyes roll and his lips . . . twitch.

A chuckle; O’Hara’s shadow fell through his open doorway. “Inspiration for your novel.”

Jonathan twitched with the urge to leap up and tear it off the ceiling, reprimands crowding against gritted teeth, but O’Hara’s expectations were painfully obvious. He looked right at the figure leaning against his doorframe and smiled.

Confusion smoothed O’Hara’s dimple.

Jonathan flicked the light switch, submerging him and the poster in darkness. O’Hara became a silhouette in the light from the hall, but Jonathan could feel his surprise across those few meters of carpet. He relished it.

If O’Hara was determined to play, he would play back. That, at least, he’d let himself enjoy. “You said it yourself. It’s inspiration.” His smile widened in the shadows. “For my novel.”

O’Hara shrank back from the door, flustering. “You’re going to kill me off, aren’t you? You’re going to have the murderer cut me up into little pieces and put me in a smoothie.”

“Good night, O’Hara.”

O’Hara cried theatrically all the way to the study. “I’m meant to be the hero. Under it all, you still like me!”

Jonathan didn’t deign to respond.

O’Hara, louder, “I’ll just start my own novel! Wait till you see what I do with your body!”

Jonathan laughed drily. “Shock me.”

“I heard that!”

“You were meant to. Now, sleep.”

The house grew quiet. Too quiet. And it took Jonathan most of the night, frowning up at O’Hara on his ceiling, before he finally succumbed.

Jonathan woke to O’Hara collapsing on top of him, the Blutack having given way under its weight.

Jonathan’s lashes combed the vinyl-coated image of O’Hara’s, his lips against that infamous dimple. He groaned and froze at the sound of halting footsteps.

“Well, well, well. What’s going on here?”

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

Laughter. “Oh, I’m sorry, am I disturbing you?”

Slowly, Jonathan slid out from under the poster. One glance at O’Hara and he wanted to drag it over his face again. Not only was O’Hara up, but he’d showered and was roaming the hallway with hair dripping over his damp shoulders and chest. Glistening.

And the towel was not a bath towel but a hand towel that O’Hara pinched together—barely—at the corners.

“Your lack of towel disturbs me.”

O’Hara smirked—

“You’ve probably traipsed water everywhere, judging by the current puddle.” Jonathan watched one rivulet cascade down the corded muscles of an arm and plop off a fingertip. “Why are you up so early?”

“Have you considered you might be up late?”

Jonathan scrambled for his phone and checked.

Nine! He balked, and O’Hara took one look at him and doubled over.

How . . . embarrassing.

Continued, ceaseless laughter had O’Hara losing his grip on the hand towel and Jonathan palmed his eyes against him chasing it to the ground. He leapt out of bed, grabbed yesterday’s towel from the back of his door, and smothered O’Hara in it, locking him in forest green from chest to knee.

Laughter jiggled in Jonathan’s arms and he stepped back, shaking his head.

O’Hara wrapped the towel more comfortably around him. “I’m gonna smell like you now.”

“. . .”

“Like roses and fresh air.”

“. . .”

“Maybe other things will rub off on me too.”

“. . .”

“Like your eternal patience.”

“It’s not as eternal as you think. Don’t test it.”

O’Hara’s eyes lit up. “Speaking of challenges . . .”

“Tell me when you’re dressed.” Jonathan whisked around; this time, he shut his bedroom door. In fact from now on, at night, that door would be closed. Decisively. He’d become accustomed to sleeping with it open in case Savvy had nightmares or sleepwalked, but they never did that anymore. Mostly.

He fingered through a stack of t-shirts. The dark blue? That one always drew compliments. It brightened his eyes, apparently. Softened his sharp edges.

He pulled his hand back, catching himself. What did it matter?

He dragged on a white polo, pristine with a sharp collar, and found O’Hara—thankfully dressed in jeans and pullover—lounging in Savvy’s doorway. Jonathan’s senses prickled. Frowning, he moved over.

Savvy was in their room, stuffing things into a backpack. Then the doorbell rang.

They hurriedly zipped and slung the bag over their shoulders.

“What’s going on?”

O’Hara locked his hand on Jonathan’s shoulder and pulled him out of Savvy’s way. “Apparently, today is a double-date—a hike through Cliffton Pass.”

“What?!”

At that exclamation, Savvy turned, hand on the door. “Just handholding, promise.”

“Cliffton Pass?”

“You wouldn’t have blinked twice if he hadn’t told you who I’d be going with.”

“Sorry, Savvy.” O’Hara’s fingers gently squeezed. “I’m all for you having the best time, but your brother needs to know the truth.”

Jonathan looked at O’Hara, who smiled kindly at Savvy.

Savvy sighed. “He’s right again, Jonathan.”

“Yes. Almost always.”

O’Hara whipped to him with a whine. “Almost? Always. I am always right.”