Tell Me Our Story

O’Hara turned ahead with a satisfied grin, and Jonathan’s longer steps quickly caught up. Looking at him out the corner of his eye, Jonathan said, “Thank you.”

A soft smile shifted into a sparkly one. “Ohh, I have an idea!”

O’Hara thrummed with energy as he fished for his phone.

Jonathan’s stomach clenched. He braced. He didn’t particularly want the world knowing his fears, but if O’Hara thought sharing this feat of friendship would help them stay in the competition this week . . . “Should I tell them or you?”

“Let me?” With a wink, O’Hara pressed live record.

O’Hara, arm slung around Jonathan’s neck, hauling him close, a view of the swing bridge behind them.

We’ve been debating the Nature of Love and while we’ve come to no firm conclusions—come now, even The Great Philosophers struggled to define love!—I glimpsed it today on our hike through native New Zealand bush, when Hart here . . . sacrificed his cosy, wool-lined jacket for my comfort. Our second-chance bromance is off to a solid start!

O’Hara turned to him. “Let’s finish this track and get lunch at the market.”

“Still hungry?”

“Laughter. Burns it all off.”

“Hm.”

“Hm, what?”

Jonathan raised a brow. “A wonder you haven’t completely faded away.”

O’Hara hopped around the kitchen for water, presumably after burning the roof of his mouth on that large bite of microwave lasagne.

Jonathan shook his head, pulled O’Hara’s tray toward him and blew on it. Seriously. Sometimes O’Hara was too enthusiastic for his own good.

Before O’Hara turned around from the sink, Jonathan moved the lasagne back to its place.

O’Hara picked up his fork and ate with expressive moans, chatting between bites. When they were done, he trashed both their cartons and planted his hands on his hips. “What now?”

Jonathan dusted his shirt of invisible lint. “I have dance lessons.”

“Can I—”

“Private lessons.”

O’Hara flopped himself onto the living room couch. “Pity. I’ll be here when you get back. We can do something then.”

A few short hours of teaching later, Jonathan found himself walking up and down his street, procrastinating. Laughter had followed him all day: throughout the afternoon, when he’d—short notice—taken over a shift at the library, and after, when they’d returned home and Jonathan had heated them dinner. There was a fizziness in his veins now that wouldn’t obey his commands to settle.

Ridiculous.

He marched up his path, inside, and into the living room. He’d use this energy to write—

The lamp was on.

Curled under it on the sofa was O’Hara with his Phaedrus. He looked at Jonathan over the top as he came in, a bright smile emerging. “You’re back!”

“Hm.” Jonathan grabbed his laptop and hesitated.

“You can write here.” O’Hara patted the spot next to him. “But first, the results just came in. I’ve been waiting for you to look.”

O’Hara half stood and pulled him to the soft couch; his phone lit up a playful grin as he shoved it towards Jonathan. “You read it.”

Jonathan took the phone and read. Half the contestants would be cut in this first challenge, and the same would happen for the next few until a more manageable number remained. Every challenge was different, deadlines changed every time, and sometimes a few twists were thrown in to complicate things. Only the judges were able to rank posts in the challenge, to keep the competition fair. Otherwise, those with bigger groups of followers would ultimately dominate the competition, and the judges wanted this to be as equitable as possible.

“Oh my God, are we through to the next round? Why is it taking you so long?”

Jonathan landed a calming hand on his knee. “We’re through.”

O’Hara sagged against him with relief.

“This is important to you.”

O’Hara sighed into the thin fabric of his shirt. “Yes.”

Something on the phone caught his eye and he pulled the screen closer to play a clip. “George and Mira, oh my God. They’re such bickering idiots. I love them.”

Giant George and Mira had also taken their post to the great outdoors and a third person had caught the moment something landed on Mira’s shoulder. She’d jumped into George’s arms, squealing for him to get rid of it. Instead, George picked the fat black spider off her and teased her with “this tiny thing?” and Mira had yelped, “That’s all relative.” Then George had pretended to pat it like it was his new pet and Mira had run away, calling off screen—to George’s delightful smile— “This is not love!”

Jonathan watched it again. Their chemistry was quite something.

O’Hara bumped his shoulder. “What’re you thinking?”

“Aren’t you jealous?”

“Hmm?”

“I mean, you and Mira looked close at the con.”

“That was our first time meeting in person. Mira’s fun and I liked her, but . . .”

“She acted into you.”

O’Hara tapped the screen on George and Mira’s post. “We don’t have that kind of connection.”

The cushions around Jonathan had sucked him deep, and his limbs slackened in their supportive cradle. “Are they aware of it?”