Tell Me Our Story

His breath ripped in half.

O’Hara whispered, “You were my best friend. I wished it hadn’t broken.”

Jonathan lurched to his feet. It was too much. He needed fresh air.

“Jonathan?” O’Hara stood too. “Are you—”

He speared O’Hara with a look that quieted him. O’Hara swallowed and nodded.

“I’ll . . . teach you how to row. Come.”

O’Hara glanced at his slideshow and then to the floor, to Jonathan’s forgotten cue cards. “I . . . I guess we can make that work for the challenge too.”

A smirking O’Hara and grimacing Jonathan in a rowboat, Soulmate Island in the distance. O’Hara is hogging the conversation.

You said this was supposed to be easy! Water-load of rubbish! Though, I have to say, the view is oar-some. Why’re you looking at me like you wish I’d go to hull? Oooh, water-bout we go to that island? It would be so row-mantic! Oof, why do you keep stealing my—

Chapter Eight

Social Challenge 3: Food of Love

There was actual fear in Savvy’s eyes. “Are you trying to . . . cook?”

Jonathan glanced at the floured mess on the kitchen island before him. “Bake, actually.”

It was Saturday, and he wasn’t working, and he figured he could try . . .

The timer ticked down, and Jonathan wrung out cloth after cloth as he cleaned. He had ten minutes before he needed to leave to pick O’Hara up from the airport, and the pasteis de nata would finish baking in another three.

Savvy peeked into the oven and straightened. “But why?” They backed to the fridge and opened it to a forest of green.

“. . .”

“Stop it. It’ll be good for us, having more fresh things in the house.”

Savvy pulled out a leafy green vegetable with a reddish root. “What is this?”

“It’s full of nutrients.”

“Do you know how to cook it?”

“. . . It’s full of nutrients.”

Savvy doubled over, wheezing with laughter. “I can’t breathe.”

Jonathan grimaced and scrubbed the last evidence of his spontaneity off the island. “Did you come in here for a reason?”

Savvy hopped up on the counter, nodding, heels lightly banging the cupboards. Jonathan looked, and the jiggling stopped. “What time do you get back with O’Hara?”

“Around three.”

“Ouch. Don’t you need to post for today’s challenge by five? Ohhh, now I know why you’re baking.”

The natas had nothing to do with the challenge. Although the excuse the challenge provided . . . “Yes.”

Savvy nodded. “Awesome, that’s that sorted. Then you guys can come meet my boyfriend.”

Jonathan chased his dropped cloth to the ground and knocked his head against the counter. His jaw clenched at the sharp pain.

“Priceless.” Savvy laughed and cooed and patted the top of his head.

“Your boyfriend.”

“I want you to stop calling him Choir Boy, and I figure a proper introduction will help.”

“Invite him here. I have . . . nutrients.”

“You won’t scare him off that easily.”

Jonathan grimaced.

“Anyway, Nate and his choir are performing at the square. Should be finished around three-thirty. Meet us there.”

“The amphitheatre?”

“Gazebo.”

The timer dinged and Savvy made a hasty retreat. Jonathan glared at his pasteis de natas.

Boyfriend?

O’Hara jiggled, pulling at the seatbelt doing its best to lock him down and laughing at something George and Mira on his phone. Jonathan concentrated on the road, the sign announcing they were crossing the town boundary. Not long before they reached the square.

O’Hara grew uncharacteristically quiet. Jonathan glanced over to find him studying his chokehold on the wheel. A brow lifted.

Jonathan leaned back in his seat. “Boyfriend!”

O’Hara hesitated, light flashing in his eyes. “Are you . . . testing the word out?”

“It sounds serious.”

“You should like it, then.”

Jonathan furrowed his brow.

A laugh. “No babe or honey for you. You’ll come home from giving ballroom lessons and be like, ‘Boyfriend, I’m home. Feet off the table. Better. How was your day?’ And your boyfriend would leap at you, hoping you’ll fall to the ground, but you’ll just catch them and let them climb up you with stoic patience. Eventually you’d say ‘Good grief, boyfriend, allow a man to arrive first.’”

Jonathan looked over, blinking drily.

“. . . Oh. You’re not testing the word for yourself, are you?”

A parking spot caught his eye and he slowed, threw an arm around the back of O’Hara’s seat and reversed into it. Arm pressed against the headrest, he met teasing greens.

“There’s something I have to do. I’ll be as quick as possible.” Trust him on that one. “Wait here.”

Jonathan killed the engine, got out of the car, and made for the west side of the square. He’d be brotherly about this. Would shake Savvy’s boy—would shake Nate’s hand and keep a cool stare on him. Enough that he knew not to try any funny business.

Beautiful, witty, lively Savvy.

He wouldn’t let a kid destroy any part of them.

Not a single tear would be spent on a greasy Choir-boy hooligan.

He’d barely crossed the road when a car door shut, and a chorus of “wait!” began. Jonathan’s step hitched. Of course.