Tell Me Our Story

He focussed on the afternoon glow brightening the white painted woodwork of the park benches and . . . the gazebo.

O’Hara glided next to him in a longish form-fitting cashmere sweater, suctioned on jeans, and calf-high boots.

Jonathan pinged him a look.

“When have I ever followed instructions?”

“Exhausting.”

“I see your stamina still needs some work.”

“Don’t test me. You’ve been warned.”

Harmonic sounds caught O’Hara’s attention, drawing a chuckle from him. “Choir music!” O’Hara grabbed Jonathan’s sleeve and hauled him forward. “And there’s Savvy at the front of the crowd.” Amused laughter. “I’ve Sherlock Holmesed this. Come on, let’s listen to the boyfriend sing.”

Jonathan flattened his lips and O’Hara weaselled them through the modest crowd to the gazebo steps.

He spotted “Nate” at first glance. Jeans, black sneakers and a pink t-shirt—the choir uniform, by the looks of it. He had chestnut hair, an eyebrow piercing, and a nose he hadn’t yet grown into. He was spirited when he sang, though, and his eyes fixed on Savvy like they were the only one in the audience that mattered.

The song ended and Nate—rather confident for almost-sixteen—announced that they had one more song. “This one’s for my” —Jonathan froze, stomach clenched. Significant other? Partner? Lover?

“—Joyfriend.”

Jonathan let out a long breath, which O’Hara noted judging by the sudden heat boring into his profile. He raised a finger in warning, not looking at him.

Nate began his solo. The choir parted around him, humming the melody. Very High School Musical. Nate threw his arm in Savvy’s direction and poured out words about how they were the best thing to ever happen.

Jonathan grimaced. What did this kid know? He was young. He hadn’t experienced the world. Someone might be beautiful and charismatic and fill all your dreams, but that didn’t mean they were meant for you. In a few months, maybe a couple of years, they would inevitably part ways, and Savvy would be left with the daunting task of reorienting their entire life. Realising just how deep that boy had snuck into it. . . .

He wanted to grab Savvy and make off home with them, or storm up the steps to tower over the boy until he ran away with his tail tucked between his legs.

Laughter whispered at his ear and he turned. O’Hara had his camera out, filming.

“The look of horror on your face is . . . seriously the best expression I’ve ever seen on you.”

Nate sang another verse, dropping onto his knees, clutching his heart.

Preposterous.

Savvy stared back at him, smiling, hearts in their eyes.

The song came to a flourishing finish and Nate bowed, eyes still on Savvy, and—

“Encore. Encore!”

“O’Hara,” Jonathan cautioned.

O’Hara laughed. “Encore!” He jerked back with his camera. “Murderous isn’t such a great look. Go back to horror. Jonathan, what are you doing . . . it’s recording, you know. . . . Oh my God, stop!”

“Off!”

O’Hara raced up the steps and into the ranks of the choir; Jonathan followed in three easy strides up the stairs. Fear flickered over O’Hara’s face, brightening his cheeks. Still, he didn’t give up. With a wicked grin and a wink, he raised his phone, turning the camera onto himself and pink Nate who he crushed against him. His gaze clashed with Jonathan’s as Jonathan lunged for the phone, and he called out, “I had to, you know why. If music is the food of love, play on! . . . Ahhhhhhhhh. Let me go. Let me go.”

With a short acknowledging nod to a chuckling Savvy and a backdrop of the choir launching into song, Jonathan marched O’Hara out of the park. Savvy would have words for him later, no doubt. For now . . .

“Save me, Savvy. Save me.”

Jonathan kept moving. “You reap what you sow.”

O’Hara sprawled on the couch, grinning behind his phone. “Come on. Forgive me.”

Jonathan crossed his arms.

“You know you want to.”

Honestly? I don’t know.

Two point two weekends O’Hara had been back in his life, and already he was turning it inside out, upside down. Man the library desk, teach ballroom three times a week, work through maths problems with Savvy, swim or row for exercise, recline in trees reading romance to his followers. None of that routine remained.

Instead, everywhere he turned O’Hara was laughing, teasing, demanding attention, and Jonathan had to somehow juggle him—a blazing ball of fire that burned every time he handled it—with everything else.

“Besides, it makes a great post.”

His nostrils flared with a quick intake of air.

“For today’s challenge!”

Jonathan turned toward the kitchen. The man made him thirst constantly. “No.”

“Come on! Most pairs will concentrate on something food related, but Shakespeare gives us an edge.”

Water rushed into his glass, and sank down his throat. He poured another but didn’t sip. O’Hara was right, of course. The challenge was probably intended to cull half the contestants. Only pairs who connected the reference moved on. They’d done something similar last year.